Further And Further Out
by cottonmouth
Summary: John never disappeared before the pilot episode, so Dean never went to Stanford to find Sam. Two months later and they discover the demon went after Sam after all… Alternate Reality, graphic wincest in later chapters
1. Prologue

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Summary – John never disappeared before the pilot episode, so Dean never went to Stanford to find Sam. Two months later and they discover the demon went after Sam after all… Alternate Reality, graphic wincest in later chapters

A/N – Okay, so after finishing Cracks In The Glass, I thought I'd take a break from posting anything new for a while…and then I came across this on my computer and couldn't resist fixing it up :) This is completely unrelated to the Full Moon stories, Sam and Dean _are_ brothers here, and there will be wincest later on, so if that's not your thing I give you fair warning now…

I need to point out beforehand that while I have researched the medical side of this story and I am pretty well informed about the stuff mentioned in this and later chapters, I am (surprisingly enough) _not_a doctor. I'm also taking a few liberties with various things which may or may not become apparent later on. A lot of these are necessary to the plot and will make sense later, but if any of you find anything to be hugely unrealistic, please feel free to comment and tell me what I've gotten wrong so I can fix it :)

Prologue

After working for nearly seven years at Sacramento State Psychiatric Hospital, Linda Grey thought she had been immunised against every kind of situation. She'd dealt with violent and disturbed patients before, patients who'd needed five orderlies to hold them down and administer the strongest sedatives before the doctors could check their vitals, even a few murderers who'd managed to escape prison with an insanity plea. She'd seen the darkest and worst impulses of the human mind, and had long ago learnt to leave her work in the hospital when she went home each night.

But the young man lying in Room 51, in the white hospital bed with glazed eyes, wires and tubes feeding his lifeless body like some futuristic man-machine hybrid…he worried her.

He'd been admitted involuntarily two months ago. Acute schizophrenia was the doctor's diagnosis, after hearing the stories. The man himself was unable to speak.

Linda had read the case file before taking on the patient. Apparently the boy had been fine before the onset of his illness. He'd been a promising student, gifted with a full-ride scholarship at Stanford University. He'd had friends, a live-in girlfriend. He'd just scored a 174 on his SATs and had an interview to study pre-law at the same school.

An intelligent and decent guy, by all accounts. Or so everyone had thought.

Linda couldn't suppress the shiver as she checked Samuel Winchester's vitals. He had to be fed and medicated intravenously; even his gag reflex had given up. If his condition progressed any further the doctors would have to think about assisted breathing.

Sam had been admitted to Sacramento State Psychiatric Hospital a few months ago and had lain catatonic in the sterile white room ever since. Occasionally one of the other day nurses would wheel him into the closed-off courtyard outside and sit with him for an hour or so after his 'consultation' with the doctor. Privately Linda wondered why they bothered continuing with the consultations, seeing as Sam was never an active participant.

No visitors had called to see him since his admittance. Linda couldn't blame his friends for staying away, but she wondered about his father and brother. From the police records dug up on Sam, it had been discovered that his mother had died in a fire when he was a baby. His friends told the police that Sam never talked about his family. He had never visited or received visits from his father or brother in the four years he'd been at Stanford, and since the mother had died there was no address listed as a contact for either of them.

Linda straightened the thin bed sheet covering Sam and tugged the string to open the blinds. The sunlight drifted lazily in through the window beside Sam's bed. A beam shone directly onto his face but there was no reaction, no squint against the light. The doctors had run tests when he was first brought in, shining a penlight into his eyes. His pupils contracted and dilated, but no awareness sparked.

Linda spent another few seconds just looking at Sam. He was a handsome boy, fox-sharp features softened by shaggy brown hair that was combed away from his face. His eyes were an odd shade, sometimes a brilliant green, sometimes darker. As she watched, his eyelids flickered closed for a second, opening on the same cold and empty expression.

She shivered again and walked toward the door.

* * *

Dean Winchester shuddered involuntarily as he stepped through the automatic sliding glass doors and out into the sunlight. The noise of planes taking off and landing was loud behind him.

He was never flying again. What kind of dumbass spirit causes plane crashes anyway? And why did _he _have to be the one to deal with it?

He stood for a second, quietly rejoicing at the feel of solid ground beneath his feet and fresh air on his face. The parking lot in front of him was full, people jostling luggage in their arms as they headed toward the doors behind him. He stuck his hands in his pockets, stepping aside for a pretty redhead with a suitcase in tow. One of his most charming grins was sent her way and Dean turned his head to watch her pass, making no attempt to disguise his interest. He was still studying the movement of her ass when a hand landed heavily on his shoulder, jolting him out of his happy daze.

He turned to see his dad standing next to him, an outwardly disapproving look on his face. It would have been effective, if not for the small smile twitching the corners of his lips. "Son, do I really need to remind you to have a little respect for women?"

Dean grinned and ducked his head. "No sir. Just admiring her hand luggage."

"Sure you were. Anyway, I had a chat with Jerry, he says thanks. He's gonna keep us informed if anything comes up again, but I think we got it."

"Yeah, well, if it does come back then you can go on the damn plane by yourself. I'm never flying again." John mock-frowned, then broke into a smile.

"C'mon then, let's get back on the road."

* * *

Doctor Yoshimura strode into Room 51, clipboard in hand. He wore a white lab coat and a stethoscope around his neck, mainly for show. The patients he dealt with rarely needed their chests listened to. The day nurse was walking toward the door and he narrowly avoided a minor collision.

"Doctor! I'm sorry, I didn't see you there." She blushed a little, plump cheeks reddening.

"That's okay. How is Mr Winchester today?"

"Same as ever." She turned to look at the patient lying still in the bed.

Yoshimura sighed. He'd only been working at Sacramento for six months when he heard he was getting Samuel Winchester as a patient. He'd secretly been delighted by the news. Six months on the job and he was being given the chance to analyse someone with sudden onslaught acute schizophrenia, and the man was responsible for _deaths_. He'd been in the newspapers for weeks. How many doctors got a break like that with their first job?

But then he'd seen Winchester. The man hadn't moved a muscle except to blink for two months. And after such a long time, Yoshimura reluctantly conceded that his being 'gifted' with a big case was more like being lumbered with a dead weight. It was unlikely the patient would ever come out of his catatonic state.

The nurse went back to her rounds, pausing at the door to look back at the bed. Some of the nurses had complained about Sam Winchester, which was the only bizarre thing about the man as far as Yoshimura could tell. The nurses claimed that they were plagued with feelings of unease around the patient, like they'd stepped into a cold shower each time they entered the room. Doctor Yoshimura had never felt anything strange whilst in Room 51, and thought it was unusual for the nurses, most of whom had been working at Sacramento for years, to suddenly develop irrational fears.

He went through the routines, noting down the man's vitals on his chart. No change, big surprise. In a few more months the higher powers would probably decide to move Winchester to a long-term care facility. It was clear that psychiatric help wasn't needed.

When the patient first arrived, the doctors had decided that the restraints should be used at all times and a nurse assigned to watch him. They'd given up on the restraints a month ago, and the nurse was replaced by a drop-in check up every half an hour.

Yoshimura flicked through the papers chronicling Winchester's condition, his brow creased in disappointment. He'd really hoped for something big with this patient, a chance to really explore his own theories, maybe even have his findings published.

He took another long look at Sam Winchester. The featureless, vacant expression _was_ slightly eerie, he admitted to himself. It wasn't the drooling, stupid face of so many of the other patients. It was almost like the man was watching something beyond the ceiling, something Yoshimura couldn't see. A loud crash in a nearby room jolted him out of his considerations and he jumped a little, quickly looking around for anyone who might have seen him start. A nurse paced by the open doorway, white shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. He sighed in relief and turned back to the patient.

Who was looking straight at him.

This time he let out an unashamed _yelp_, leaping backward and nearly colliding with the unused visitors' chair behind his legs.

"Doctor? Is everything alright?" The nurse walked back into the room, and on seeing what must have been a stricken expression on his face, started toward in concern.

"You…you…" He tried to get the words out, but the sight of Sam Winchester's eyes, that intent and paralyzing green gaze holding him like a pinned bug on a board, stopped his thought processes. He pointed wordlessly, hardly realising he was doing it.

The nurse followed the direction of his finger, blinking once and then seeing. She gasped and took a step back. "Oh my goodness, he's _awake_?"

Sam's eyes narrowed a little and then his brows creased in obvious confusion. "Dean?" The word was a whisper, dry and cracking like burning paper. Then he closed his eyes for a long second.

When they opened again, they were set back in the old familiar expression, staring blindly at the ceiling as if it held all of life's secrets.

Doctor Yoshimura, once freed from his paralysis, took a hesitant step forward. "Mr…Mr Winchester?" He whispered, half-afraid the man would turn that knife-gaze back on him. But there was no response, no movement. Just that neverending staring contest with thin air.

"Did-did that actually happen?" Yoshimura turned at the question. The nurse had retreated to the doorway, both arms clinging to the frame like she was about to fall off a cliff. "Was he awake?"

He shook his head a little, more to clear out the fug of bewilderment. "I'm not really sure what happened. But he said _something_."

"Dean. He said Dean."


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, I'm glad you guys liked the beginning! Hopefully this lives up to everyone's expectations! I'm not sure exactly when I'll be able to update next, but it should be within the week :)

Chapter 1

"Well, we have a possible job in Ohio. Apparently there are reports of several murders, all in the same area. The bodies have all been found minus their skin."

Dean made a face at his dad's words, looking up in the middle of polishing his guns on the sagging motel bed. "Minus _all _their skin? Like something stripped it off?"

"Yep." John spread the newspaper flat on the table in front of him. "Fancy it?"

Dean twisted the rag in his hand around the barrel of a disassembled revolver. "I could do without having to _see _it, but a job's a job, right?" He flashed a cocky smile at his father, snapping the now-clean gun back together with a click. "When are we leaving?"

"Actually, _we're _not. There's also some strange disappearances around New Mexico I was gonna check out. You want to take one by yourself?"

Dean always felt a strange mixture of anxiety and pride when his father asked him to take a job by himself. It had been happening more and more over the last year, and while Dean felt stupidly happy that his dad thought he was good enough to take care of things by himself, sometimes it played on his mind. Maybe _this_ would be the time, the hunt in which John would finally leave him.

"Sure." He said. Regardless of his _feelings_, he had a job to do. He straightened on the bed, looking John in the eye.

"Okay. If you take the New Mexico job, I'll drive up to Ohio."

Dean felt a little frustrated that his dad had given him the easier job, but he didn't complain. "Okay. I'll go check it out."

* * *

Dean was nearing Santa Fe when he got the call.

His cell buzzed in his jacket pocket, interrupting him mid-song. He swung over to the side of the road, dialling down Led Zeppelin and ignoring the loud horn of a grey pick-up truck complaining about his sudden swerve across the blacktop. Flicking open the cell phone, he pressed it to his ear with one hand, the other still making faint drumming motions against the steering wheel in time with the music.

"Hello?"

"Dean, son." His father's voice sounded cracked on the other end of the call.

Dean sat up straighter, turning the music off altogether. "Dad? What's up?" There was a long pause and Dean started to panic. _He hasn't had time to get to Ohio yet. Has he?_ He tried to calculate how long it would take him to swing around and get there. "What's wrong?"

His father drew in a breath, sharp in Dean's ear. "Pastor Jim just called me. You…you need to get to California right away." Dean's heart stuttered once and then started pounding double-time, blood rushing loud in his head. The hand holding the cell shook violently, the plastic phone almost slipping out of his grip.

"Wh-what?"

"It's Sammy."

* * *

Dean arrived in Sacramento exactly two hours after hanging up on John Winchester, breaking every speed law and running every red light he came across. He spent the drive berating himself loudly and colourfully for ever letting his baby brother out of his sight. And when he ran out of suitably vicious insults, he drove in steely silence, both hands gripping the wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He resolutely ignored the tears threatening to spill over his cheeks.

Pastor Jim had apparently been trying to reach them for weeks. John hadn't charged his cell, again.

Dean slowed for a passing ambulance, pulling over to the side of the road. A blonde woman in a red tank top walked by on the sidewalk, glancing at him casually and then looking again when she saw his flushed face. She flinched away from the car when Dean swore suddenly, hitting the wheel with one hand.

Sam had been alone for months. The demon had killed his girlfriend and his friends and he had been alone. Dean should have been there.

John had repeated some of the things Jim had passed on from local California newspapers. Hallucinations, disturbed fantasies, mental breakdowns. The papers had painted Sam as a crazy nut, dragging up the death of their mother and using it as sensationalist gossip. His brother's so-called friends had given interviews, terrified sob stories in which Sam was the villain of the piece and they the innocent victims being picked off one by one. Dean wanted to run them all down and pump them full of rock salt. Not to kill them, but to make _them_ understand what it was like to suffer.

The Sacramento State Psychiatric Hospital was surprisingly well signposted, as if it got a lot of tourist business. He drove into the small visitors' parking lot and stopped the car with a jolt.

The facility was large and white, practically glowing with cleanliness in front of him. He sat in the car for a full minute. Now he'd reached his destination he had no idea how to proceed. Rushing in and demanding to see his brother like a bomb was about to go off would probably get him admitted alongside Sam.

Finally he stepped out of the car, straightening his clothes as if his beaten-up leather jacket and jeans with holes ripped in the knees could be transformed into something respectable with the effort. He sucked in a deep breath, held it in his chest, and began walking sedately toward the entrance door.

* * *

Sam Winchester hadn't moved or spoken since the day before, when he'd asked for Dean. A look in his file had instantly revealed who 'Dean' was. Doctor Yoshimura stood in Winchester's room, holding the file in one hand. He reread the notes taken at the initial assessment, the police statements and the claims of witnesses and friends, all combined into a clinical evaluation of Winchester's troubled state of mind.

Initially Winchester hadn't been a suspect for the fire. Emergency services on the scene had assessed the damage and ruled the cause as accidental. Winchester had been seemingly devastated by the death of his girlfriend, Jessica Moore, and struggled to come to terms with the terrible loss. His friends at Stanford had taken him in without a second thought.

Then there had been the second fire.

Sam Winchester had been staying with friends, Rebecca and Zachary Warren. One night, nearly a week after the first fire, the Warrens' house had burned down around the three of them. Winchester was the only one to make it out alive. When paramedics arrived he had been raving, mostly incomprehensibly, about a demon attacking him, a dark figure that stole peoples' bodies and started fires around him. He claimed to have 'seen' the fires and the demon in his dreams. After the paramedics checked him over and found no serious injuries, the police arrested him.

The evidence against the catatonic man was strong. Both fires had been started while he was in the house, and both times he'd escaped with minimal injuries. But before the case could come to trial, Winchester suffered what the file described as a complete mental breakdown. Apparently he had family, a father and an older brother, but they hadn't turned up, even after all the publicity surrounding the boy.

Dean Winchester, the AWOL older brother who hadn't been seen or heard of since before the first fire. The patient hadn't talked to him for years, if the accounts of his friends were anything to go by. So why was he the first person Winchester had asked for? The _only _person?

Yoshimura frowned a little. He kept a degree of distance between himself and the patient. It wasn't necessary to be physically close, he justified. He wanted to be able to survey the entire bed for any minute movement.

The bed sheets had been changed that morning, pulled taut and white over Winchester's legs and chest. His arms were free, lying limply on top of the sheets on either side of his body. Encircling his left wrist was a light blue hospital tag like those used on newborn babies to differentiate between each tiny bundle of pink wrapped in blanket. Winchester's name and room number were written on the tag in black ink. It stood out against the white of the room, the bed sheets, the patient's own pale skin. The California tan that had coloured Winchester's face and arms when he arrived had faded away, now faint and distant like his mind.

A nurse stepped into the room behind Yoshimura, drawing his attention away from the patient. He turned back quickly, like he would miss something if he wasn't watching. _Like Winchester might sneak up on him while his back was turned_. He almost snorted at the ridiculous thought.

"Doctor, there's someone at reception asking for you." The nurse left the room, and Doctor Yoshimura followed in a hurry. The relief he felt at being away from his patient was professionally ignored.

* * *

"Look, he's my brother, _Samuel Winchester_, can't you just let me see him?" Dean was ready to hit the pretty and vacuous blonde girl sitting behind the desk in the reception area. She smiled blandly.

"You'll have to wait a minute sir. The doctor is coming. Would you like to take a seat?"

Dean ran a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to slam it down on the desk. Getting thrown out of the place would help no one.

The open reception area around him was large and airy, glass panels showing flower beds in a small garden area outside. Cream sofas were arranged in a perfect square by the windows. In the centre of the arrangement was a glass table holding magazines and children's comics, as if it was a normal doctor's waiting room. It was a pleasant space, like a sweet air freshener that masked the smells of vomit underneath.

Dean perched tensely on the edge of one of those perfectly arranged sofas, his elbows resting on his knees. His fingers twitched restlessly.

Just as Dean was about to leap up and start another round of carefully phrased arguments with the receptionist, a man wearing a lab coat stepped into the room. He sprung up before the doctor could say anything, turning toward him in anticipation.

The doctor didn't look at Dean, walking to the desk to have a quiet conversation with the receptionist. Finally he turned to Dean.

"Mr Winchester? Mr Dean Winchester?" Dean took two huge steps forward.

"Yes. Can you take me to my brother?" The doctor looked taken-aback; actually took a step to one side at his eagerness.

"Uh, well, I'm Doctor Yoshimura, I'm in charge of your brother's care and treatment while he's staying here…first I'd like you to step into my office. I need to…explain Samuel's condition."

"Explain what? I just wanna talk to my brother." Dean didn't bother returning the introduction. He clenched his fists by his sides, trying not to look too intimidating.

"Uh, I'm afraid the newspapers didn't report the exact…extent of Samuel's breakdown."

"What? What do you mean? Where is he?"

"If you'll come with me, I'll take you to my office and explain." The doctor walked to the door he'd entered from, gesturing the way with one hand. Briefly Dean considered just punching the guy out and running to find Sam himself, but then he thought about the size of the place. Besides, this was a mental hospital. He'd never find his brother before security found him.

He sighed and followed the doctor meekly.

* * *

Dean sat in a padded chair facing the doctor's desk. The doctor sat in front of him in a large leather office chair, sifting through files and papers. Wasting time that Dean could be spending with Sam.

"Look, can we make this fast? I'd like to see my brother." Dean leaned forward, fastening a winning smile to his face. The doctor looked up, his mouth tightening. Apparently Dean's skill at charming people wasn't working so well today.

"Uh, Mr Winchester, I'd just like to ask some questions before we get started on the subject of your brother. Why have you waited so long to get in contact? We've had people trying to trace you and your father for months."

"My dad and I've been busy recently. We only found out today that Sam was even in here." Dean said brusquely. "Can we talk about my brother now? Please?"

Doctor Yoshimura coughed a little and shuffled the papers around on his desk again. "Yes, of course. Well, as I told you, the extent of Samuel's…condition hasn't been publicised."

"Extent? What extent?"

The doctor took a long breath, leaning forward in his chair and steepling his fingers beneath his chin, like he was trying to appear older than he was. Dean wasn't impressed, staring the smaller man down until he coughed again and began speaking.

"Your brother is a troubled man, Mr Winchester. He has displayed a number of the symptoms of psychosis, for example; hallucinations in which he seems to believe a figure is trying to kill him. He claims this 'demon', as he calls it, was the one who started both of the fires." Dean's fingers gripped the arms of the chair until the knuckles turned white. The doctor didn't seem to notice, continuing on with his explanation. "I've diagnosed him as an acute schizophrenic. We've been treating him intravenously with an anti-psychotic, but I'm afraid while that can help treat what we call the 'positive' symptoms of schizophrenia, Sam also displays a number of 'negative' symptoms."

Dean frowned, trying to process everything the doctor was saying, but his mind kept on coming back to the demon. It had been after Sam, that much was clear. But if it wanted him for some reason then why didn't it _take_ him, while he was unprotected and vulnerable?

And then the rest of the doctor's words caught up with him. "Wait a minute; you've been pumping my brother full of _drugs?_" Dean stood suddenly, shoving his chair back. "That's it, I want to see Sam. I wanna see what you people have done to him."

"Mr Winchester, I really think that you should hear me out before you see your brother." Doctor Yoshimura stood to face Dean, picking up one of the brown files on the desk. "Samuel suffered a complete mental breakdown, which was the reason he was admitted here involuntarily."

"Yeah, I was told that." Dean spat the words out, turning to walk out the door on the assumption that if he left the room, the doctor would have no choice but to follow him.

"What you weren't told is that your brother has been in a catatonic state ever since he was admitted."

Dean stopped. He blinked at the closed door a few feet in front of him, frowning. _I can't have heard that right._

"He's what?" He said, turning slowly to face the doctor. Doctor Yoshimura stood behind his desk, holding the file he'd picked up in both hands.

"He's catatonic. He hasn't responded to any outside influences, he won't talk, he won't eat, he won't even swallow by himself. He hasn't moved a muscle except to blink since he was brought here. We can't find any physical reasons that might cause this kind of breakdown, so we have to assume that Samuel's…problems…became too much for him to deal with, and so his mind essentially…switched itself off."

Dean felt blindly in front of himself with one hand, finding the chair he'd just vacated and dropping down onto it.

"Mr Winchester, there's something else I have to ask. Was yesterday a…special day in any way? Did it mean something to you, like a birthday or something?"

Dean looked up, his face twisted in confusion. He'd just been told his brother was catatonic, and this man wanted to know if it was his _birthday?_ He kept his mouth shut, staring at the doctor until the man grew uncomfortable, shifting on his feet.

"Uh, the, uh, reason I ask is that, yesterday Samuel…woke up, for want of a better word, for the first and only time since arriving here. It was only momentarily, but he said your name before he…left us. It's very rare, but there are some studies to suggest patients can be able to unconsciously keep time whilst in their comatose states. And we've been told that you haven't seen Samuel for years, so I was wondering if maybe the date had some…special significance, that would explain why he would ask for you?"

Dean shook his head. Sam had asked for him? Sam had asked for _him_, no one else, and he hadn't been there. "Take me to my brother. Now."

* * *

Dean followed Doctor Yoshimura through the sterile halls numbly. They passed through a number of electronically locked doors in which the doctor pulled out a key card attached to his belt on a long chain. Despite Dean's shock at learning of Sam's condition, he still noted the security measures being used. He would need to learn them for when it came time to get Sam out.

And okay, finding out Sam was practising his play-dead routine made the job harder than Dean had originally counted on. But there was no way he was abandoning his brother to this place.

John hadn't told him to break Sam out. In fact, John's instructions had been to get to California, check up on Sam, and then _wait_. He was driving down from Ohio as fast as he could, but it would take a week or so for him to get clean across the country. Dean had agreed, promised to find a motel nearby and hole up until John got there. And then he waited for his dad to hang up before planning various ways to get in and out of mental institutions unnoticed.

The doctor led him through the hospital to a ward with a sign reading Intensive Treatment and Research Unit on the double doors. He paused to swipe the key card and then entered a four digit number in the keypad to one side of the doors. Dean filed the number away in his mind.

"Your brother is staying in a private room at the moment. If there is no improvement on his condition within the next few months, we'll be thinking about transferring him to a long-term care facility." Doctor Yoshimura said with a nervous glance back at Dean, as if he was afraid Dean would start protesting. Instead Dean nodded tersely. If everything went as Dean hoped, his brother wouldn't _be_ here in a few months.

A nurse at the work station behind the doors smiled as they made their way past. Dean didn't bother returning it.

They walked past open doors and Dean glanced inside. Each held a single male patient in a bed. Some were strapped down, some were murmuring indistinctly to themselves, most were just laying with looks of blank indifference on their faces.

"We don't usually allow visitors in at this time. This facility is stricter than the other wards, mainly because the patients admitted here are resistant to treatment. Their…ah, mental disabilities mean that they can sometimes be violent." The doctor seemed to be speaking just to break the silence between them. "The visiting hours for this ward are on Tuesdays from two until four. We usually require some form of ID before letting people come in, and you'll have to sign your name on the register of authorised guests as you leave. But this facility is one of the best in the state, so you have no need to worry about the care we provide for your brother. If he comes out of his catatonic state, we'll provide therapy sessions, rehabilitation clinics, counselling. He really is in the best place for his needs at the moment."

Dean suppressed a snort. The _best place_ for Sam would be with Dean.

"Uh, we also have several craft rooms where Samuel will be able to participate in various activities, such as cooking, drawing, exercising. Socializing with the other patients. I don't know if you noticed the courtyard on the way in? We allow the patients on each ward a few hours a day to spend in the courtyard, all supervised of course. After Samuel's assessment sessions, a day nurse usually takes him down to sit for a while."

Dean felt slightly sick imagining Sam trapped in this place. His brother, subjected to 'supervised sitting'? Christ.

"Ah, here we are." The doctor stopped short of a room. "This is your brother's room." Dean took a deep breath, stepping toward the door. The doctor followed and Dean turned.

"Can I have some time alone with him?"

"Uh, well we really don't allow it…" Dean clenched his jaw and glared at the man. He shrank back like a mouse, glancing around furtively to make sure nobody was around to see. "Well I suppose a few minutes…"

"Thanks." Dean didn't wait, spinning and striding into the room, the door swinging closed behind him.

He stopped short at the picture presented to him.

His brother lay in the bed, perfect white sheets covering his body. His arms looked chalky pale and the once-defined muscles were now replaced by slender outlines. Sam's face was smooth and unlined, his hair clean and brushed back from his face.

Dean always said he shouldn't have it hanging in his eyes. It was bad for his aim.

Sam didn't react to his presence at all. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, green and wide. Beautiful in an abstract way, like an oil painting. Not the breathless beauty Dean had never been able to turn away from, the laughing, always-moving and too-big _presence _he hadn't quite learned how to live without in the four years they'd been apart. Dean took a tentative step closer, his throat feeling constricted, too small to breathe through. "Sammy?"

Dean reached out a hand that shook slightly in the disinfected air. He hesitated a moment before brushing it against Sam's wrist. His skin was dry and cool to the touch.

"Oh God. Sammy…can-can you hear me?" Dean whispered, his fingers tightening around Sam's hand. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry Sam." He leaned forward, the hand not holding Sam's coming up. Tentatively he waved it in front of his brother's face, watching the vacant expression, hoping for some change. Part of him hadn't wanted to believe the doctor, a small whisper telling him _not Sammy, it's a trick, he's just pretending, waiting for me to come and get him_.

The door opened and the irritating little doctor stepped in again. "Mr Winchester?" Dean didn't look up, refusing to acknowledge the man. "I know that it's a shock to see a loved one in this…condition, but please rest assured we're doing everything we can for him."

Dean wanted to hit him. Hit the stupid doctor in his stupid face because obviously they _weren't _doing everything they could for Sammy; his brother was in this ridiculous place, lying in this stupid bed, trapped in his own mind.


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, I'm so glad you guys are liking this :) I pointed out in the Prologue that I'm unfortunately _not _a doctor, and I have taken a few liberties in this chapter with medical stuff. And I'm pretty sure the medical staff and security at psychiatric institutions aren't exactly as I've portrayed them either, but I'm claiming artistic licence :) Next update will be next week sometime…

Chapter 2

'Doctor Hodges' expertly flicked his acquired key card through the scanner of the Intensive Treatment and Research Unit, keying in the security number. The plump nurse looked up as he stepped through the double doors. He grinned brilliantly at her, watching her dissolve under the force of his smile.

"Hi, I'm Doctor Hodges, I've been sent over from San Diego State? Doctor Yoshimura wanted a second opinion on a patient, a Mr…" He made a show of checking the clipboard held in his hand, blinking through the metal-framed glasses he wore. "Mr Samuel Winchester?"

"Oh, the doctor didn't tell me we were expecting anyone. Doctor Yoshimura's gone home for the day." He put on an exaggerated frown, watching the young nurse from the corner of his eye as her pink face turned sympathetic.

"I had a last-minute call down in San Diego. I don't suppose you could get him on the phone for me? He really wanted me to check over the patient and this is the only time I'm available."

The nurse practically jumped out of her seat for the phone, her dazed smile returning now that she had a way to be of assistance to the attractive man standing in front of her. "Of course. If you don't mind waiting around for a minute, doctor?"

"It's no problem." He leant forward on the desk and turned up the wattage on his smile. "Would it be okay if I went ahead to the patient's room while you call? I'm on kind of a tight schedule at the moment."

"Uh, well you should really have Doctor Yoshimura present…" He affected a resigned yet understanding expression, a weary smile playing on his lips like this was just one more setback in a hard day. The nurse bit her own lip and hesitated a second. "Well…I'm sure he won't mind if you go on in, he _did _call you all the way over here. Just don't tell anyone I let you in."

He winked at her. "No problem. Which room is it?"

* * *

Dean ditched the wire-rimmed glasses as soon as he was in Sam's room. The nurse was down the hall calling Doctor Yoshimura, there were security guards outside the main exit doors and he still only had half a plan to get Sam's big uncooperative body out of the building.

He'd been in Sacramento a week now. His father's friend Joshua had dug up the security information on the hospital and Dean had managed to concoct a very shaky escape plan. It didn't help that the place was run under tighter security than some of the casinos in Vegas. But he'd gotten in, which was half the battle. Or so he kept repeating to himself silently.

It was nearly dark outside, most of the doctors finished for the day. The day nurses were off shift, which meant Dean wouldn't be recognised as the brother who'd been visiting Sam earlier that day. He'd charmed a young nurse into letting him stay beyond the visiting hours, claiming he wanted to spend some 'quality time' with his brother. Sam hadn't shown any sign that he even knew Dean was there. But he'd been allowed to accompany the nurse as she pushed Sam around the outside courtyard in a wheelchair, listening with gritted teeth as she told him how much Sam enjoyed his time outside, as if his brother was a retarded child.

He'd asked if he could wheel Sam back to his room, 'accidentally' forgetting to take the wheelchair back outside. Luckily it was still where he'd left it.

Dean managed somehow to manoeuvre Sam halfway off the bed after freeing him from the machines and monitors, lifting him the rest of the way in a fireman's carry. He whispered a quick "Sorry Sammy" as he dumped his brother's body roughly in the seat of the chair.

Dean peeked out of the open door, looking both ways to make sure no one was coming. This was the part of the plan that pretty much sucked; walking straight out of the building with an obviously unwell mental patient. He was just hoping 'Doctor Hodges' would be able to talk his way round anyone that might object.

The nurse was still on the phone, a slight frown creasing her forehead as she spoke. Dean quickly wheeled Sam out of the room and down the corridor in the other direction, repressing the urge to whistle innocently and trying to look as if he knew what he was doing. Joshua had passed on the plans for the building and Dean had memorised the quickest escape routes.

He pushed the chair into the elevator on the floor, pressing the button and willing the doors to close before anyone could see him. The doors glided silently shut without incident.

Dean stepped to the side of the wheelchair, bending so his head was level with Sam's His brother stared off into space, his head tilted to one side as if his neck was too weak to hold up the weight of it.

"Don't worry kiddo, I've got you now." Dean stroked a gentle hand through Sam's bangs. "I'll look after you." He turned Sam's head to face him, still hoping for some awareness to shine through in his brother's misty eyes.

The elevator binged and the doors slid open. Dean stood up and pushed Sam out, walking casually to the doors to the main reception area. He swiped his stolen card again and stepped through to be greeted by two security guards on the other side.

"Where are you taking this patient?"

Dean smiled broadly, his mind racing. "I'm Doctor Hodges, I'm moving Mr Winchester to another ward."

The bigger of the two guards stepped in front of the wheelchair, his chest puffed up behind his uniform. "I don't think so, not until we have some _authorisation_. I haven't seen you around here before, I know all the doctors on sight."

"Yeah, I'm from San Diego State, Doctor Yoshimura called me over. The nurse up on the ward said it was okay." The man looked unconvinced.

"I'm gonna have to call up and check. Can't have you just taking patients." Dean tried another smile.

"Sure. Go right ahead." The guard wavered for a second, looking at his partner. Dean inwardly prayed. Finally the man stepped aside, nodding once and heading toward the small office at the corner of the corridor. The other man stood where he was, not taking his eyes off Dean.

As the bigger guard disappeared into the office, Dean reached slowly inside the white lab coat he wore, his hand feeling for his gun.

"Hey, what're you…" The guard took a step forward, his eyes trained on Dean's arm.

And then Sam arched up in the chair, a choking gasp of air sucked in through his mouth. Both Dean and the guard started in alarm, watching as Sam's hands flexed and tightened around the armrests, as his head rolled back to look up at the ceiling. Dean was on his knees by Sam's side in an instant, his hands cupping Sam's face.

"Sam! Sammy, you there? Can you hear me?"

Sam's mouth fell open in a moue as his faraway look focused sharply. He looked at Dean, _saw _Dean, and there was no surprise in his expression.

"Hey! What the hell's happening to him?" The guard brought Dean back to reality, pulling him out of Sam's powerful stare. He stood quickly.

"Uh, he's having a reaction to his new medication, I need to get him to the ward, now!"

The guard darted a look for his partner in the office, but the other man hadn't reappeared. He looked back at Sam, watching indecisively for a second as he convulsed in the chair. Finally he screwed up his eyes, nodding sharply. "Okay, take him!"

Dean mentally thanked the lord for his timing and ran past the man, shoving Sam's chair in front of him. Rounding the corner, he could see the glass exit doors ahead. He fumbled for the key card again, skidding to a stop and sliding the card through the scanner. The light turned green and he keyed in the number just as the guards started to shout for him to stop.

"C'mon, c'mon…" He muttered under his breath, the doors sliding slowly. Before they were halfway open, he shoved the chair through the gap and ran.

The empty ambulance that Dean had commandeered stood waiting in the staff parking lot, the back doors open and the ramp down. He didn't pause, wheeling Sam into the back and pushing everything closed just as the guards reached the doors.

"Hey! Stop!" He spared a look over his shoulder before jumping in the driver's seat and starting the engine, stepping hard on the gas.

* * *

Dean's head was running in circles as he drove, like a dog chasing its own tail. He desperately wanted to stop and talk to Sam. See if he was actually awake. He was _sure _Sam had been there, had seen him. His eyes had been focused on Dean, practically hypnotising in their intensity. And what if he was having some kind of fit? The convulsions had stopped as soon as they'd been out of sight of the guard, but he could be choking on his tongue or something. Dean twisted in the seat, looking at Sam in the back. His brother sat there calmly, his chest rising and falling evenly and the dead expression back in his eyes.

By now the hospital would have called the police. Dean had to dump the ambulance fast. He drove as quickly as he could without attracting attention, heading for the lay-by just outside of town where he'd left the Impala. He'd already booked a room in a motel in preparation, had IV packs to plug into Sam if he wouldn't eat. He'd refused to get any medication. His brother _wasn't_ mentally ill; he didn't need to be shot up with drugs every half-hour.

John would be furious that Dean had taken Sam before he'd arrived. But at that moment Dean felt too pumped with adrenaline to care much. He'd done it. He'd actually pulled it off. His breath was still coming in short pants and he resisted the urge to floor the ambulance, euphoria taking over from panic.

He drove out of town almost sedately, the 'you are now leaving' sign a white blur by the side of the road. He wanted to sing, jump about in the seat and celebrate. He'd saved Sammy. His brother would be okay now.

The lay-by that sheltered the Impala was almost unnoticeable in the rapidly darkening shadows. He swung the ambulance onto it, parking practically on top of the Impala's rear bumper, and climbed in the back.

"Sammy? We're here." Sam didn't give any response and Dean ignored the swooping plummet of his heart. Sam had been awake before. He just needed some time. Dean could give him that. "Okay, let's get you out of this crappy ride and into the car. Remember riding around in the Impala? I know it's been a while, but don't worry, she hasn't changed. Still the most gorgeous bitch in America." He grinned at Sam, swinging the back doors open and kicking the ramp down.

He'd hoped to be able to leave the wheelchair behind with the ambulance, but he hadn't counted on Sam's little growth spurt. If Sam ever stood up, he would probably be taller than Dean now, all long limbs and half-wasted muscle. While it was nice to know that Sam had been keeping up with his training, at least up until his breakdown, the extra weight Dean could have done without. He huffed as he used all his strength to pick Sam up from the chair like a baby, half-throwing him over his shoulder. He got Sam into the front seat, nearly catching his brother's head on the door frame as he did it, and stood breathing heavily for a few seconds.

"Christ Sam, what've they been feeding you at that school of yours? First thing you do when you come round; _diet_." Sam just sat there, a breathing mannequin staring out through the windscreen into the night. Dean watched for a second longer before letting out a long breath and folding the chair, sticking it in the back.

"Okay kiddo, let's go find that motel."

* * *

Sam was lying on the bed, for all intents and purposes dead to the world. Only the regular blinking of his eyelids gave any indication that his brother was alive. He hadn't moved once, even after Dean had knocked his head on the car door trying to wrangle him back into the wheelchair.

It was bizarre. Usually with Sam around no one else could get a word in. The kid would be bitching constantly, questioning everything from their lifestyle to their choice of diner to eat in for breakfast. He would be stalking up and down the tiny motel room, winding Dean up tighter and tighter until he snapped like a broken spring. Which would usually lead to an almighty blow-out between the two of them, ending in sulky glares after John returned.

Now Dean found himself talking continuously, like he was trying to make up for the lack of sound so that his mind wouldn't notice Sam wasn't talking back. "…so we ended up wasting the bitch. Dad was so pissed at me; all 'Dean, what the hell did you think you were doing', and I was standing there, covered head to toe in swamp water, stinking like hell, and he comes running at me like he's gonna kill me or hug me, I wasn't sure which, and what does he do? He snatches the machete out of my hand and starts inspecting it for rust!" Dean laughed at his own story, the sound loud and overzealous in the small motel room. "You should've been there, I know how much you like to use those knives of yours. Don't think I didn't notice they were gone after you left, Sammy."

Dean winked. Sam blinked slowly, the ceiling obviously more interesting than Dean's story. "Yeah, okay, it wasn't our best hunt. But it's not like you got up to anything better. Unless essay-writing and libraries are your idea of a good time." He paused, looking at Sam. "Actually, scratch that, that's probably your idea of heaven on earth."

One thing that hadn't changed was Sam's enormous _presence_. Dean had always been aware of exactly where Sam was in proximity to himself, exactly what Sam was doing. It was like his brother was lit up in neon, glowing in the corner of Dean's eye no matter where they were. He'd missed it when Sam went to Stanford.

Dean's cell phone began to vibrate on the table between the two beds. He picked it up, read 'dad' on the screen. Now the adrenaline high had faded, Dean was feeling slightly concerned about John's reaction upon discovery that his oldest son had broken his youngest out of a mental institution against his orders.

"Hello?"

"Dean, I've just driven into Sacramento, which motel are you in?"

* * *

John Winchester stood silently in the corner of the motel room, glowering in the shadows. Dean shifted uncomfortably, scratching at the back of his neck.

"Uh, he came round earlier. For a second. I think. And the doctor said he was asking for me before I arrived. He's gonna be okay now he's back with us."

John didn't say anything, staring at Sam's still body lying on the motel bed. The dull light fitting above the headboard flickered, sending dancing shadows across the lax muscles of Sam's face.

"I had to get him out of there dad, you didn't see…you didn't see what he was like in there…"

"Dean."

"They were pumping him full of drugs, dad! No wonder he's like this!"

John abruptly spun to face Dean, his eyes burning. "Dean, you _kidnapped _a suspected murderer from a mental institution! Every cop in the state is gonna be out looking for the two of you! And look at him!"

"He's not _insane_, dad! He didn't do anything, he shouldn't have been in there in the first place!"

"Look at him, Dean! He's not well!"

"Yeah, and he wasn't gonna get any better in that place! He needed me, dad! I had to…I had to get him out of there." Dean dropped his head forward. "I couldn't just leave him."

"I told you not to do anything. I gave you an _order._"

Dean's head came up in a snap. "Yeah, well I disobeyed it."

John sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. He walked to the second bed and slumped down on the musty bed sheets. Dean's eyes wandered from John's bent form to Sam, blissfully unaware of the argument taking place. His brother was still dressed in the white hospital scrubs and Dean suddenly worried that he would catch a cold through the thin material.

"Dean…son, I understand how you were feeling. I didn't like the idea of Sam in that place any more than you did, believe me. But what if he never…comes back to himself? What if he's like this forever? Maybe…maybe the hospital was the best place for him." John met Dean's gaze. The shadowed light made the furrows around his eyes look deeper, the grey in his hair and beard shining like seared burns.

"So I should have left him there? Dad, he's gonna be _fine_."

"We don't know that."

Dean shook his head. "No. He's gonna be okay. And what if he'd been in that place when he woke up? You said it yourself dad, they think he's a murderer! They would have arrested him!" He felt tears prickling at the backs of his eyes, blinked them away harshly.

"Well, what are we gonna do with him, Dean? How the hell do we hunt with him like…like this? And no doubt the police know it was you who kidnapped him, which means they'll be after you wherever you go. Did you even stop for a _second _to think this through?"

"I don't care, dad! He's my brother, he's _your _son!"

"Dean…"

"No!" Dean took a step toward John, his fists clenched stiffly at his sides. "You can't make me regret doing this!"

John stood, stepping forward to meet Dean head on. He opened his mouth as if to retort, but then he closed his eyes and the tension ran from his body. He looked exhausted, wrung out. Inwardly the tiny voice that always protested in Sam's voice when Dean blindly obeyed his father's orders cheered.

"I'm going to get a room for the night. We can talk about how we're going to deal with this in the morning." John turned to the door, opening it. Before he stepped out into the night, he looked over at Sam. "Just…just stay inside. If anything…happens, call my cell."

Dean nodded tersely, waiting until the door closed behind his dad before sagging onto the bed beside Sam.

"Christ, even when you're not talking, you're causing arguments." He gave his brother a tired half-grin. "It's okay, little bro. I got your back."

* * *

The morning light woke Dean from a deep sleep he hadn't realised he'd fallen into. The last thing he remembered was sitting next to Sam on the bed, having used the sheets from both of the beds to cover him.

Despite it being almost summer, and _California_, once his mind had stumbled over the idea of Sam getting sick, it had been all Dean could do not to run out and buy thermal underwear and fleece blankets. He'd done everything he could to make Sam comfortable, piling both the thin pillows under his head and gently wiping a washcloth on his face and neck until the skin was dewy and pink. After setting up one of the IV packs with meticulous care, he'd allowed himself to sit, just for a second. Which apparently was all his body needed for the exertions of the day to sneak up on him and knock him out with the strength of a sledgehammer.

The sunlight was shining directly onto his face through a crack in the curtains. He groaned, rolling over onto his front. And colliding with the other warm body sharing the bed.

Dean was on his feet before he could register even telling his body to move. He blinked wildly, looking down at the creased and slightly dipped patch he'd just been laying in. Just been _cuddling up _to his at-present mentally disabled brotherin. He felt his face heat up.

He didn't need to go _there_, not now, not ever. He'd successfully avoided situations like this since he was seventeen and Sam was in the middle of his first growth spurt, reserving physical contact with his brother for patching up after hunts and nothing more. Now, one night alone with his brother and Dean was already breaking the first of many self-imposed rules.

Sam didn't seem to be complaining though, the ceiling above him drawing all his attention. Dean wondered briefly if Sam actually slept at all, or whether the state he was in now counted as some sort of sleeping-with-his-eyes-open coma.

A knock at the door broke Dean's thoughts off. He swung his body around, still fighting off the hot warmth flooding his face and the last lingering traces of sleep. "Yeah?"

"Dean?" John's voice was low though the door. Dean stepped over and unlocked it. John stood in the shade of the building, two cups of coffee and a bag with something greasy soaking through the corners in his hands. He stepped into the room and held them out like a peace offering. "I brought you some breakfast."

"Thanks." Dean took them, unsure exactly what he was supposed to _say _to his father now. He was pretty sure his face was still glowing and he hoped John wouldn't mention it. But John wasn't looking at him anymore.

His father stood at the foot of the bed Sam lay in. Sam didn't give any indication that he knew John was there, and John held himself almost as still as Sam was.

Dean watched his family for a second, the coffee burning through the paper cup against the palm of his hand. "Dad?"

John looked over at Dean, blinking like he'd forgotten he was there.

"What are we going to do?" Dean hated how pathetic he sounded, asking for his dad's help after everything he'd said last night.

John dragged in a hard breath. "We're going to make the best of the situation. I called some people last night, people who might be able to take Sam in. They can look after him, we can drop in whenever we're in town."

"What?" Dean blinked. "What do you mean, 'take him in', no one's taking him anywhere!"

"Dean, I don't want to get into another argument with you. Sam needs professional help, and we can't give it to him."

Dean dropped his gaze to the floor. The smell of the coffee in his hand was suddenly overpowering, sickening in its thick bitterness.

* * *

John paid for an extra night in the motel and then they waited until darkness had fallen before leaving.

Dean refused point-blank to allow John to take Sam in his truck. If they were taking Sam to some stranger's house and dumping him there, the least he could do was be the one to drive him. Even if Sam couldn't hear his words, Dean wanted some time alone with his brother to explain. Maybe it would help ease his conscience at abandoning his baby brother, again. Never mind that Sam had been the one to leave in the first place. Dean should have been there to take care of him anyway.

He slipped out of the room, driving the Impala as close to the door as possible and wheeling Sam out. It was easier with his dad there to help load Sam's limp body back into the seat, he admitted grudgingly.

John had told him that a friend, ex-military like himself, had offered to take Sam in for the time being. She had been a nurse and still had some contacts that could get her the necessary equipment to look after someone in Sam's condition.

'Sam's condition' was how John had begun referring to the catatonic state, as if Sam was suffering from a terminal illness. Like he couldn't stand to state the bare facts, like glossing over it with a polite term would make it all better.

Dean could tell his father didn't hold out much hope for Sam. While Dean had spent the day on the laptop, researching every medical website and journal and article for anything that sounded remotely like it could apply to his brother, John just sat, looking at Sam with grey eyes. As if he was already mourning his lost son.

"But you're gonna be fine, aren't you Sammy? You just need some rest, a few days to process." Dean sat in the driver's seat of the Impala, following the taillights of his father's truck as they pulled out of the parking lot. "Dad says leaving you with this woman is the right thing to do. Says she's gonna take care of you for me. But don't worry, the _minute _you wake up, I'll be on my way over there to get you."

Sam's head lolled on the seat and Dean reached out a hand, gently guiding it to rest against the car door. _No touching_, his mind whispered. He ignored it. Sam blinked evenly at the glove compartment in front of him.

"It's gonna be okay, Sammy. I promise." Dean whispered, almost to himself.

John's truck picked up speed in front as they reached the highway. Only a few other cars were on the road, the rush hour long over. The streetlights lit up broad patches of asphalt, black tar shining as if it would suck the Impala in like quicksand. They were headed north, a few hours' drive away. John hadn't been specific about the location of the place, hadn't even mentioned the woman's name, just in case anyone overheard. Privately Dean thought his dad was being a little _too _cautious, but he recognised the belated need to take care of Sam in the only way left to his father.

"And, you know, if it takes a while for you to come round, that's okay too. Just…just don't take too long, okay, Sammy?" Dean glanced over, flashing a quick smirk at Sam. "Not that I'm complaining about the quiet. I think this is the longest you've ever gone without some kind of protest. You might want take it into consideration."

Dean followed his father out of California. They hadn't encountered any trouble on the roads and Dean thanked god for small graces. He'd had a sick fear playing in the back of his mind that a police car would appear out of nowhere, pull them over for something trivial and recognise Sam in the passenger seat. Because somehow his brother was pulling all attention to himself, even in his unconscious state. It was like he was radiating some kind of magnetic force that demanded people _look_ at him. Or maybe it was just the effect Sam had on Dean.

The road they were driving down was dark and surrounded by tall trees. Dean had lost track of where exactly they were a few miles back, just following the broken white lines drawn along the centre of the road with distracted patience. His mind was still caught on its favourite subject, still trying ridiculously to explain his guilt to his uncaring brother.

"Sam, you know when…when you left for Stanford…dad didn't mean it. What he said. He…_we_, didn't want you to stay gone. We were just scared. We didn't want anything to happen to you." Dean snorted to himself. "Guess it's a little late for that now. But…but don't think we didn't care. 'Cause we did."

Dean took his eyes off the road for a long second, trailing his gaze up Sam's motionless body. "We visited sometimes. Stopped by after jobs, whenever we were in town. Just to make sure you were okay. Bet you never knew that. Never thought your big brother was such a girl." A grin passed his lips, gone as soon as it came. He took a long breath. "I saw your girlfriend. She was really pretty. You looked happy."

John indicated in front, turning off the main road into a smaller lane that Dean wouldn't have noticed had he been driving past on his own. The Impala bumped over the uneven surface and Sam's head bounced against the side window. Dean immediately slowed, reaching out to steer Sam back into the seat.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you. I'm sorry I couldn't save her for you." His voice was low, barely audible over the sound of the engine.

"I meant to stop by, you know. After this last job. I hadn't been to check up on you in a while. I didn't…I didn't really think anything would happen. Didn't believe it would, not after this long."

The road in front of him trailed off into little more than a dust track, no streetlights to show the way. John drove without pause and Dean wondered for a second how many times his father had stopped by this place to know it so well in the dark. He kept the Impala within a few feet of the truck, hearing scratches from small twigs against the sides of the car and half-heartedly worrying about the paintwork.

The light given off by the waning moon above lit up the view well enough, Dean realised after allowing his eyes to adjust. He could see the vague shape of a building through the trees at the end of the road. Sam's new home for the time being, he assumed.

John slowed to a stop as they reached leveller ground. Dean pulled up behind the truck, watching his father step out of the driver's seat, glancing back at the Impala and walking up to the house. Before he could reach the door it swung open and the figure of a woman appeared, backlit by the light of the hallway behind her. She stepped out, walking to John and hugging him for a long minute. John hugged back, exchanging words too low for Dean to catch. They turned as one, John gesturing toward Dean and the Impala.

Dean bit his lower lip. His insides felt like they were eating themselves. Sam was still and silent in the passenger seat. _Where he belongs_, Dean's mind hissed.

His hands shook and he reached for the door handle, his fingers finding the key in the ignition instead. The Impala roared to life and Dean vaguely wondered when he turned the key.

He could see John start forward, blinking against the sudden onslaught of brilliant headlights, his forehead creased in confusion and then in disbelief.

_No. Not leaving him here. Not Sam._

Before his father could take another step forward Dean was throwing the car jerkily into reverse and stamping on the gas, flying crazily backward down the dark road behind him. Sam pitched forward but Dean had an arm out before his head could connect with the dash.

The figure of his father grew smaller as the Impala picked up speed, and Dean felt the hysterical urge to laugh as he realised he was kidnapping his brother for the second time in as many nights. His breath was coming in sharp pants and without his notice a grin spread itself across his lips. Sam was safe. As long as Dean was around, Sam would _always _be safe.


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Another chapter! Sorry it's taken me so long to update, I've been unexpectedly busy suddenly! Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I really do appreciate your comments :) Hopefully you guys like this…

Chapter 3

Dean drove randomly for a week, stopping each night at a different motel.

He fell into a routine almost by accident, his head still buzzing. He'd drive all day and then as dusk began to fall, he would locate the nearest motel, order the cheapest room available and then get Sam inside and laid out on the bed. The first thing he would do was take care of Sam, hooking him up to a fresh IV pack and making him as comfortable as possible. Then he would shower, eat the remainder of whatever he'd picked up during the day at nondescript gas stations, and curl up on the bed next to his brother. The no touching rule had gone flying out of the window on the first night, after Dean woke up in his own bed with heart pounding, terrified that his brother would somehow have disappeared while he wasn't looking.

John had phoned, sometimes only a few times a day, sometimes twenty times in an hour. Dean hadn't been able to work himself up to answering yet.

Sam still hadn't woken up. Once, in the twilight minutes between sleeping and waking, Dean thought he felt his brother move, just a quick rippling and flex of muscles under his cheek and palm. He'd sprung up like a fire had been lit under his ass, but Sam had looked the same as he always did and Dean had to assume he'd dreamt it.

He couldn't help the constant stream of mindless chatter falling from his lips. Dean didn't think he'd ever talked so much in his life. He told Sam about past hunts, about the times he'd missed whilst he was at Stanford, about things Dean remembered from when they were younger. Every once in a while he'd catch himself spilling some close-held secret or the other, something he'd sworn once upon a time never to tell another soul. Never _that_, the most important and closely-guarded secret, although it was on the tip of his tongue to spill more than once. But anything and everything else was whispered to his brother in the night, told in a hum of words on the road.

* * *

Dean woke up exactly a week after kidnapping his brother, slightly surprised to discover they were in Minnesota. He had no recollection of entering the state, only vague memories of booking the motel room.

Sam was warm beside him, a long line of heat pressed against his front. He smelt like soap and fabric softener, clean from the bath Dean had given him the previous day. If Sam was conscious, he'd have been mortified at having to be looked after like a baby, bathed and clothed and carried everywhere. Dean didn't find it embarrassing. It took him back to the months after their mother's death when John had been too caught up in his grief to think about anything else. Dean had taken care of baby Sammy then, and it had been the only thing that mattered to him. Sam relied on him, he couldn't just _stop_, he had to be responsible.

He pushed himself upright, looking down at Sam's serene face. A clump of hair was hanging in his eyes, caught up in his eyelashes as he blinked and Dean stroked a hand softly across his forehead, pushing it back.

"Morning Sammy. Sleep well?"

Dean stretched, feeling a few kinks pop in his spine. "Yeah, I slept pretty good. Had a weird dream. You were in it, and so was this chick I met in Philadelphia a few months back. You were eating Krispie Kreme's in the back of the Impala and tellin' her about the time I wet myself during that werewolf hunt when I was nine. Crazy."

A half-eaten pack of Twinkies lay on the table at the foot of the bed and Dean ate one whole, chewing with his mouth open. His cell phone vibrated on the wooden surface.

"Dad's calling again. Think he's still pissed?"

Sam blinked at the ceiling. Dean smirked as if Sam had answered. "Yeah, me too. But we gotta talk to him sometime, right?"

He pressed the button, lifting it to his ear. Before he could say anything, his dad started.

"_Dean? Where the hell are you? What the hell do you think you're doing?"_

"Dad, I can explain…" Dean said softly.

"_Where's Sam?"_

"He's with me. He's fine."

"_He's awake?"_

"No, but he's _fine_." He could hear his father's heavy sigh, picturing him sitting in a motel room identical to Dean's own with his head in one hand.

"_Dean. I'm not mad. I'm just worried. You need to come back now."_

"Dad, I told you, Sammy's fine. You don't have to worry about him." Dean said, watching Sam's steady inhale-exhale under the overwashed motel blankets. The IV stand rested beside him, glinting silver in the light.

"_It's not just Sam I'm worried about right now. Dean, your brother isn't fine. And you know it. I know it's hard to accept…"_

"Accept? Accept what?" Dean said curtly, knowing he wouldn't like the answer.

"_Accept that Sam might not get better…"_ Dean pressed his eyes closed, gritting his teeth. _"Dean, you need to come to terms with the idea…"_ He snapped the phone shut on his father's half-finished sentence, holding down the power button until it shut off. The silence in the room was oppressing. Dean spun quickly, snatching up a towel from the floor.

In an overly cheerful voice he said "I'm gonna take a shower, okay Sammy? I'll leave the door open, if you need me…" His voice broke and he felt tears burning behind his eyes and clogging his throat, threatening to overwhelm him. His mouth shut with an audible snap and he strode into the bathroom.

* * *

Loading his brother into the car every morning was hard work. Dean always asked for the end room in the motel of the day so he could park the Impala as close as possible to the door. He had it down to an art now; up and ready to go at five each morning, pack his bare-minimum belongings into his duffle and haul it and the abundance of things Sam might _possibly _need in the case of some bizarre emergency into the trunk, whilst checking surreptitiously for anyone who might see him carrying an unconscious man around over his shoulder. If no one else was in sight, Sam was hustled into the front seat like a dirty secret. Dean had the entire process to a four minute-thirty five second mechanised schedule.

Once, as he'd been settling Sam against the car, ready to manoeuvre him into the seat, an old woman had poked her head out of the room next to theirs. Dean hadn't thought, had simply reacted on the instincts that had governed his life for as long as he could remember. He'd pulled his brother forward so it looked as if Sam was standing in the circle of his arms, his head resting gently on Dean's shoulder.

Dean had held the position for longer than necessary, closing his eyes and feeling Sam's soft breaths against the side of his neck like warm cloud-puffs. The last time he'd allowed himself to get so close, the last time he'd indulged himself with that which was _off-limits_, _forbidden_, had been almost seven years ago. Sam had broken his wrist and was crying for his brother, and nothing John could do would calm him down. Dean hated himself a little as he settled Sam in the front seat, finally.

Today's trip was no different, and Dean's mind was pointedly blocking out John's words which slipped to the forefront of his mind when he wasn't watching out for them.

Sam didn't look unhappy, he reasoned. His baby brother would always have the best possible care Dean could provide, John _had_ to know that. There was no reason for them to go back to his dad. Big brother had it all covered, and Sammy was _fine_.

Dean started the car up and drove, heading toward the brightening horizon.

* * *

He couldn't sleep.

Dean lay blinking up at the ceiling of the motel _du jour_, conscious of the fact that his brother was doing the same thing beside him. He wondered what it was that Sam found so interesting about the view. From what he could see it was nothing special, just a blank off-white space, broken by tiny cracks in the paint and a stained patch of damp in the left corner of his vision.

After three motionless hours of mirroring his brother's behaviour for no good reason, Dean felt the uncontrollable urge to stand, to _move_, to get the heavy feeling out of his limbs and _do something_. But while part of him wanted to get up, apparently the bigger part was content to stay still. To keep looking for that hidden something that had Sam entranced and kept him from Dean. So he remained beside Sam, ignoring the low growl of his stomach and the dryness of his throat.

Until the back of his neck started to itch, followed shortly by his left shoulder blade. He sighed heavily.

"Guess you beat me at that game, Sammy." The words were mumbled and indistinct. Sam probably wouldn't be able to make out what he was saying. He didn't repeat himself.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he sat up. The sun had set hours ago, the curtains drawn to block out the streetlights from the road. Dean stumbled over to the light switch on the far wall, hitting it one-handed and bathing everything in a dirty glow of yellow light.

Sam looked exactly the same as he had when Dean carefully laid him out three hours before.

The IV pack was running low and Dean prepared another to replace it. There were seven remaining and mentally Dean tallied up the cost to buy more. The expense was more than he could afford. He'd already maxed out all but two of his fake credit cards, and the people he would have to see to buy medical supplies wouldn't take plastic anyway.

He considered going to find a bar, score some cash off a game. But he couldn't leave Sam alone. He had to be responsible for his brother.

Dean bit his lower lip, looking hard at Sam. What if John was right? What if Sam never improved?

His baby brother lay motionless on the musty floral bedspread as if he was a plaster body mould of himself, a hollow shadow.

Without meaning to, Dean reached a slightly shaky hand out to Sam, brushing across his forehead in the lightest of touches. Kneeling down carefully beside the bed, he stared for a second.

"Sam? You in there, kiddo?" No response, not that Dean had honestly expected one. Dean bit his lip harder. "Sammy, I need…I need you to…" What could he say? What could he possibly tell Sam that he hadn't already said a million times over in the last few weeks? His eyes felt hot and sore, as if the lids were lined with sand.

"Please. Sammy, please."

Sam didn't react at all, no matter how hard Dean scrutinised him. He took Sam's hand in his, squeezing it tightly between his fingers and trying to imagine he could feel Sam squeezing back. He gripped hard enough to whiten his knuckles, his fingers twitching with the stress on his muscles. For a second it almost worked.

He watched the slow and steady open-shut of Sam's eyes in growing desperation. John's words came back to him and he tried to ignore them. But they repeated over and over, louder and louder until Dean could practically see his father in the room with him.

Dean finally let his head fall forward. Moisture prickled at the corners of his eyes, leaked out and itched a path down his nose.

His other hand was still pressed against Sam's dry forehead and the contact was suddenly unbearable, hot like someone was holding his palm to a gas stove. He snatched it back, the force knocking him off balance and onto his backside on the rubbed-bare motel carpet.

The room, everything around him, it all smelled like sickness. It stunk of it, permeating his nose intolerably and Dean lurched to his feet and toward the door. He felt like he was on a ship in turbulent seas, everything around him rolling uncontrollably and he couldn't quite find his equilibrium. A hand on the doorknob felt like a lifeline and he wrenched it open, stumbling out and slamming it behind him.

The world seemed to calm down once he was out of the room. The cool night air felt good against his fever-sweaty skin and he breathed deeply, trying to cleanse the poison from his body.

A car drove past on the road, an old black Cadillac with the windows rolled down and country music floating out on the breeze. Dean tracked it with his gaze, wondering where it was going, who was driving it. It passed beyond a grey building, Dean's eyes catching and holding on the sight of the bar he'd driven past coming into the motel. A drink would be good right now. Or twenty.

He stepped off the porch, following the path in front of him with detached attention, marvelling at how it led right to the door of the bar. The windows were all lit up and the thump of music spilled out, a welcome Dean could understand. He pushed inside and was greeted by the scent of alcohol, the sight of drunken people, the grungy dimness he revelled in. A smile spread across his face, growing larger when the not-unpretty barmaid asked him what he'd like.

"Jack. Bring the bottle."

* * *

Dean couldn't remember how he got back to the motel room. Hell, he couldn't remember much at all after the first five shots, one after the other, coming as quick as he could pour them. What he did know was that somehow he had returned to his room, stripped down to his boxers and passed out on the bed. And now the sunlight was attacking his brain with the ferocity of several mauling bears.

He groaned loudly, winced at the new pain the noise brought, and reached blindly toward the nightstand, where his hand encountered a glass of water. He swallowed it down and then wondered how the hell he had the foresight to pour himself water in the condition he was in last night. Blinking it away, he closed his eyes again, rolled over and bumped into Sam.

Who was staring at him.

"Holy shit!"

He propelled himself form the bed and somehow managed to land on his feet.

Sam was lying in the same position Dean had left him in last night, except his head was tilted to the side and his eyes were razor sharp and seemed to be tracking every move Dean made with no emotion in them at all.

Dean stood between the two beds in the room, panting as if he'd been drowning and staring with wide eyes right back at his brother.

His mouth fell open a little way and he tried to say something, make sounds come out, anything. He settled for a squeak posing as a question that he hoped Sam would understand. But Sam didn't say anything and time was ticking past in what was either really slow seconds spread over days or hours cramped into one moment.

Dean was suddenly struck by the thought that maybe, _maybe_ Sam wasn't awake at all. Maybe something had happened to him. He'd had a fit in the night, he'd woken up all alone and panicked and broken his neck. He'd _died_, he was dead right there on the sheets and Dean had been so drunk and out of his head and _not here _when Sam needed him and now his baby brother was dead, and god, it was _all Dean's fault_.

He choked on the air and fell forward, hand outstretched, feeling as if he'd stuck a knife into his own heart and was in the process of slowly ripping it free of his chest cavity.

His hand came into contact with Sam's face.

Sam's warm face.

Dean's heart started beating again triple time.

"Sam? Sammy?" He whispered as if he was in a church. Sam didn't say anything and Dean felt despair begin to replace panic. Before it could overtake him, he felt a twitch of muscles between the fingers splayed over Sam's cheek. Slowly Sam turned his head to face Dean, and it was like a chorus of angels had begun singing around them. "Sammy. Oh god."

Sam reached up with one arm and batted Dean's hand away. The blank expression didn't leave Sam's eyes as he feebly tried to push himself upright, shaky arms drained of their strength by months of inactivity. Dean knelt on the bed, both his hands reaching for his brother, helping him to a sitting position. Sam pushed him away.

"Sam? What's wrong? It's okay, it's me, you're okay now." He tried to touch Sam again, but his brother flinched away and Dean held both hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay, not touching." His words made him think unwillingly of his own rule, disregarded days ago. He leaned back on his heels, looking at Sam with a mix of awe and a creeping apprehension that he didn't like at all. Sam was okay. He was awake, he was moving. But something still wasn't right.

Dean frowned, tilting his head to one side and watching as Sam did the same. Almost as if his brother was surveying him, assessing with his gaze. He wasn't saying anything, wasn't even trying to speak. And his eyes still held that foreign look, that dead non-expression that had been aimed at the ceiling for months on end and now was aimed at Dean. It was like looking into the eyes of a shark.

"Sammy?" Sam didn't say a word.


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

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Chapter 4

In desperation, Dean called his dad. John picked up on the second ring, apparently anticipating his call.

"_Dean." _

"Dad, Sam's…I think he's awake."

"_What? You think he's awake? Is he okay? Let me talk to him!"_ Dean bit his lip, looking at his brother sat in the same position on the bed. Sam wasn't looking at him anymore; instead his gaze was focused intently on the blanket Dean had spread across his lap. One hand played across the fabric, tracing the striped pattern delicately. Sam wouldn't speak, hadn't even tried from what Dean could tell. He wasn't even sure that his baby brother recognised him.

"Dad, I think…I think there's something wrong with him." He tried to speak evenly but the tremble slipped into his words and suddenly he was spilling everything. "He won't talk, he wouldn't let me touch him. He doesn't even seem to know who I am! He's just…sitting, not saying anything. I…I don't know what to do." Dean turned his back to Sam, lowering his voice. "I…I tried Christo, Dad, and Holy Water. Hell, I recited the Lord's Prayer in Latin! It's him. It's Sam, he's…he's just not _right_."

John was silent for a minute and Dean could hear his harsh breathing through the phone connection. He closed his eyes, waiting for the outburst, the admonitions. And he _knew _he deserved them, every single one. If he'd just left Sam in the hospital then the doctors could have taken care of him. They'd be able to _fix _him. If he hadn't gone against his father's orders for the first time in his life. He'd made a mistake, and now Sammy was going to pay for it.

Dean was so deep in self-recrimination that John's voice took him by surprise. _"Dean, where are you?"_ He jerked a little, his eyes opening in time to see Sam glance up at him.

"Minnesota." It came out a whisper, a defeat. John took down directions to the motel and told Dean to stay put, he would be there in four days. Dean acquiesced with quiet _yessirs_ and John hung up the phone, leaving him with static and his broken brother.

* * *

The only food left in the room was the emergency rations Dean kept stuffed at the bottom of his duffel. He wasn't sure if Sam would eat solid food. On TV they always seemed to spoon feed hospital patients with some kind of lumpy goop that Dean guessed was easier on the stomach. And Sam _had _been out if it for months now. Giving him beef jerky probably wasn't the brightest idea. But he felt uneasy about leaving Sam alone in the room, even for half an hour. Last night had proved what a bad idea _that _was.

So, primary concern was how to get food from _outside _to _here_. Dean kicked the wooden chair out from underneath the tiny desk by the door, sinking into it. One obstacle at a time. He could do this. His dad was on his way, and all Dean had to do was take care of himself and Sam until he got here.

After deliberation he called the front desk from the room's phone. The nice, motherly-sounding woman who answered was very sympathetic when Dean explained about his brother's sudden violent illness that had come on in the night, preventing them from leaving the room. He didn't even have to bring the subject up before she was offering to run to the local store for him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ever felt so damned grateful to a complete stranger, especially when she turned up at the door fifteen minutes later with two bags containing tins of soup and other soft foods, a large bottle of Pepto-Bismol and a homemade apple and blackberry pie. She'd waved away his attempts at payment, saying it was "just nice to see a young man who cared so much about his family".

Sam stayed silent throughout the proceedings, although he followed everything with dark eyes. After the woman left, Dean cooked a tin of chicken soup on the hotplate in the corner and warily approached Sam.

"Sammy? You hungry, little bro?" Sam's forehead was creased in a slight frown, as if he was in the middle of a particularly complex puzzle. His head tilted to one side as Dean carefully sat down on the edge of the bed.

Dean wasn't too sure how to go about getting Sam to eat. If his brother was really in the middle of some kind of bizarre breakdown who was to say he would even be able to chew, swallow?

Dean took a breath, deciding just to offer the food to Sam and hope for the best. _Hoping for the best's all I seem to be able to do recently anyway_.

"Here you go, kiddo. Chicken soup. Can…can you eat it by yourself?" Sam's eyes dropped briefly to the bowl Dean was holding out in front of him and then flicked back up. The intensely considering gaze made Dean feel as if he was being studied like a science experiment. Sam made no move to take the soup and Dean felt his already almost-exhausted energy draining away.

He put the bowl down on the bedside cabinet and let his head drop into his hands. The hangover tailing on from his heavy night of drinking was still aching at his temples, only increased by the change in his brother's condition.

The carpet between his bare feet was fascinating, Dean noticed. The rubbed-bald patches made a strange formation when he squinted his eyes a little. It looked kind of like a reindeer with three legs.

A backfiring car in the parking lot outside had Dean on his feet and reaching for the shotgun sticking out of his duffle before he could place the sound. Feeling slightly foolish, he faced Sam, a sheepish smile pasted on his lips despite his brother's lack of response. Sam hadn't so much as twitched.

Dean felt disproportionately elated when he finally figured out how to get Sam to eat. Spoon feeding him was quickly discounted after Sam obstinately refused to acknowledge the spoon poking at his mouth. He tried hooking Sam up to the IV pack again, spending several minutes delicately inserting it into Sam's forearm and bandaging it down securely, only to have Sam scratch it out the second Dean stepped back. After taking a deep and calming breath, Dean sat down in front of Sam and stared, hoping for divine inspiration or something similar.

Which came to him in the form of a mug.

Sam was too weak to hold the mug himself, but he consented to Dean's help, taking sips of the now-lukewarm chicken soup as Dean held it to his lips.

Dean wanted to jump up and down in relief. Sam might not be all there yet, but accepting the soup was a step closer. It proved Sam was _aware_, at least. He could work with that. A trickle of cautious hope crept back into him.

After drinking half of the soup in tiny increments, Sam flopped a hand at Dean's arm, which Dean took to be his brother's way of telling him he'd had enough. He placed the mug on the bedside cabinet and just sat facing Sam.

His brother was too pale and skinny by far, his cheeks shadowed and sunken. He looked vampiric, which might have been a serious concern to Dean if he hadn't known that vampires weren't real. But the alertness in Sam's eyes was almost scary, catching and holding Dean in the beam of his gaze as if Sam were glowing brilliant white.

The dark hoodie Dean had managed to wrangle Sam into the previous night swamped him. The sleeves hung down over his hands, making him look as if he was a child trying on adult's clothing.

When Sam's head began to lull to one side, Dean took it as a cue to settle his brother back down on the bed. He ignored the pitiful attempts to push his hands away, methodically laying Sam flat on the mattress and pulling the blanket up to his chest. Sam blinked at him a few times before his eyes closed and stayed closed. Dean never thought he would be so happy to see his brother's eyelids.

Sleep might not be such a bad idea, Dean conceded as his hangover made itself known again. He caught himself before he dropped down onto the bed beside Sam. If his brother's reactions to touch were anything to go by, Sammy wouldn't be too pleased to find his older brother curled up next to him when he woke up. And it was probably time to reinstate the old rule anyway. Sam was awake; he didn't need Dean holding him now.

With reluctance, Dean lay back on the other bed in the room, his head facing Sam. The mattress felt cold and too-big without the second body pressed against his and Dean slipped into sleep feeling hollow and alone.

* * *

Dean awoke the next morning shivering. The hot line of heat that radiated from Sam's body was missing. Even in the short space of time, he had grown used to feeling his brother _right there_ where he could keep him safe. He mentally chastised himself. He never should have started something best left alone anyway.

He opened his eyes a crack, rolling onto his side and looking across to the bed that was now Sam's and Sam's alone.

Which was currently empty.

Dean was on his feet, his gaze wildly sweeping the room in a split-second. Sam wasn't in the bed or the bathroom, the door leading outside was still locked and dead bolted so he couldn't have left the room...

A huddled form sat pressed in the corner of the room. Dean felt a fraction of relief, his panic deflating.

Sam was cross-legged on the floor facing the wall, bare feet white and cold. He was staring at the wallpaper fixedly, strange dark shapes and lines covering the beige, and Dean was confused for a moment. He hadn't noticed the marks before.

And then Sam raised one hand to the surface, pressing his fingertips against it, hard enough to whiten the skin around his fingernails. He moved his hand downward and thick fingerprint trails painted the wall.

"Oh Christ." Dean lunged at Sam, catching his hand before it could trace any more pictures onto the wallpaper. Turning it palm-up in his own hand, Dean winced at the damage. The pads of skin had been rubbed away, blood welling up in tiny pricks that flowed together to create Sam's macabre finger-paint. Dean felt like throwing up, his stomach knotting in revulsion. "Sam…Christ Sammy, what did you do?"

Sam didn't seem to register the question, looking at Dean with blank indifference, as if he couldn't feel the pain or the chill of the morning air. He tried to pull his hand away, turning back to the wall. Dean gritted his teeth, suddenly more pissed off than he could remember being in a long time.

"Fucking hell, Sam, what is _wrong _with you?" He dragged Sam up, throwing him bodily onto the bed. A whuff of air escaped Sam's mouth as he hit the mattress and Dean felt irrationally pleased to hear it. His hands curled into fists.

Sam lay prone on the bed, his hands splayed on the covers. The blood darkened the sheet in rosebud whorls beneath his fingers and he stared evenly up at Dean.

Dean took a deep and shuddering breath, his hands unclenching. "God, Sammy."

His chest felt as if steel bands encircled it, drawing tighter with every breath. His brother wasn't _right_, and Dean didn't know how to fix it. Didn't know how to take care of him, and that foreign look in Sam's eyes, that cold and calculating stare, only highlighted his inadequacies.

The first aid kit was in his duffle and Dean retrieved it, keeping watch on Sam. At least he could bandage up his brother's cuts. That much he still knew how to do. The rest he would just have to learn.

* * *

The TV was on, Jerry Springer trying to council some fat woman with five children as she screamed at her ex-boyfriend. Dean heard it in the background, mixing with the faint noises from the road outside the motel room.

He'd coaxed Sam into eating another mug of soup, vegetable this time. He'd given Dean sullen looks the entire time, but the mug was now empty and Dean decided to count it as a victory. The cuts on his fingers were clean and hidden beneath bandaids. The damage hadn't been as bad as Dean feared, the drying blood making the wounds look worse than they actually were.

He could tell Sam wanted to be over by the wall, finishing whatever it was he'd started. The marks didn't mean anything as far as Dean could tell, random collections of lines and shapes traced onto the faded wallpaper. He'd tried to wash them away but the dried-on mess had just smudged into brown blurs. Sam kept darting glances over at it when he thought Dean wasn't watching.

Dean felt dirty and exhausted. A shower would be good, a long hot soak to ease some of the tension out of his shoulders and back. But leaving Sam alone wasn't an option, so he sat on his bed and listened to Jerry, discreetly keeping both eyes on his brother.

Two minutes spent taking a piss was apparently enough for Sam to resume his place in front of the wall, scraping at the bandaids to get to his skin.

Dean had him back on the bed in an instant, holding him down with both arms. This time Sam struggled, thrashing feebly around in an attempt to throw Dean off and get back to his work. Dean held him securely, ignorant of the tears that were trickling down his own cheeks.

"Sammy, what is it? What do you want? Please, Sam, talk to me. _Please_."

Sam stilled at Dean's voice, turning his head to face Dean. The frown he wore deepened into something like despair and Dean felt his heart lurch. He loosened his grip, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of Sam's head.

"You gotta talk to me, Sammy. You gotta tell me what it is." Sam surged up in his arms and caught his mouth, pressing their lips together in a rough kiss.

Shocked, Dean threw himself back and landed on his rear on the carpet. He blinked up at Sam, his heart pounding like he'd been electrocuted and his mind racing. Sam kissed him?

_Oh god Sammy, what's wrong with you?_

Sam slid to the floor, watching Dean with green eyes that glittered like snakeskin. He sat cross-legged, making no attempt to move closer to Dean.

Dean rubbed a hand through his short hair, feeling shaky and confused. It was as if they were acting out a play, following leads and cues that only Sam comprehended and Dean was left behind to struggle with what it all _meant_.

He closed his eyes, trying to will his heart to slow. He had to calm down and think this through. Thinking things through was good, seeing as he was apparently the only rational being in the room at the moment.

Sam had never wanted to kiss his brother before. That much Dean was sure of, that much he could say he knew, because he had _known_ Sam inside and out. He'd known all along that he was alone in that particular sin, wanting what he couldn't have. But it had been _okay_. Dean had been okay with wanting something he never should have wanted in the first place. As long as he had Sam in some way, as long as they were brothers.

Before his brother left for college, Sam had been the one person Dean understood. His father, the random girls he slept with, the strangers they helped, they were all unpredictable elements that could change at any time. But Sam had been like the tide; once you knew him you could follow his patterns, could know how he would react.

This Sam needed a completely new instruction manual.

Dean climbed back to his feet, feeling like he had just stepped off a ship and his legs hadn't adjusted to land yet. He reached out a hand to Sam on the floor and was surprised when his brother hesitantly took it. He ignored, like always, the spark that danced on his nerves at the touch.

John called a few hours later. Dean told him what had happened in a small voice that sounded nothing like his own. He didn't mention Sam's kiss. After explaining about Sam's sudden desire to redecorate the motel room walls, John was silent for a few seconds. Dean braced himself for a lecture on taking _proper _care of his little brother, but John merely spoke softly in a thoughtful voice.

"_Well son, if Sammy wants to draw pictures, why don't you try giving him some paper and a pen?"_ Dean closed his eyes, mentally beating his head against a wall. Why the hell didn't he think of that? John's careful words threw him back to a time years before, Dean calling his daddy from a motel room in desperation when five-year old Sammy refused to take a bath and John having to play peacemaker between the two from the next state.

"I'll try it. When will you be here?" Dean said.

"_I'm on my way. But there's a haunting in Missouri that I might check out first. You can hold on for a few more days, can't you?" _

_No! _Dean screamed in his head. _I can't do this, I can't be responsible for Sam, I've screwed up too many times. _But the words wouldn't be forced from his mouth.

"Yes sir." And _that _brought back memories as well. Dean and Sam, left behind while John saved strangers' lives without them.

John hung up, leaving Dean alone again. Sam was staring at the wall, paying no attention to his surroundings.

A pad of notepaper with the motel's name and address printed along the top lay next to the Bible in the bedside cabinet. Dean found a pen and sat himself on the edge of Sam's bed. His brother turned to face him, alien curiosity in his eyes.

"Okay Sammy. Let's see if dad was right." He held out the paper and pen. Sam's eyes flicked down at them and then returned to Dean's face. Dean held back a heavy sigh. "Alright, let's do it this way."

Dean placed the pad on Sam's lap, moving over so he was sitting beside Sam on the bed. He picked up Sam's hand, ignoring Sam's surprised tugging, and twisted the pen into his fingers, curling them into the grip and covering them with his own. Sam blinked and Dean brought their entwined hands down to the paper, resting the point of the pen against it.

"Look, drawing. That's what you wanted to do, right? That's what the wall was about?" Sam continued to sit unmoving, watching Dean like he was a mildly amusing sideshow trick. The sigh slipped out. "Okay, watch Sammy." He moved their hands, tracing big loops of black ink onto the paper. "See?"

Sam's single-minded attention turned to the paper. Dean inwardly rejoiced. His brother made no attempt to tug away from Dean now, watching carefully as the thin lines covered the page. An idea came to him as he watched his hand making abstract shapes.

"Do you remember how to write, Sam?" He moved their joined hands to the top of the page and gently guided them into letters. "See, this is your name, and this is mine. Can you remember how to do that?" He studied his brother's face, hoping for a flicker of recognition. But Sam kept his eyes on the paper, puzzling out the mechanisms with no interest for the words. Dean pulled his hand away. Sam didn't seem to notice it was gone and he felt an ache deep in his stomach.

Sam's hand began to move on its own, drawing shapes with painstaking care. The two names Dean had written on the top of the page in big curly letters were ignored. Staring at them made the ache in Dean's stomach worse.

* * *

Dean woke up the next morning feeling cold and alone. Sam was sitting up on the covers of his bed, cross-legged and hunched over the pad of paper Dean had given him.

"Morning Sammy." Sam didn't spare Dean a glance, scribbling with determination.

Shuffling into the bathroom, Dean thought he should feel grateful that at least now Sam wasn't trying to rub his fingers to the bone on the wall. At least he could be left alone for a while. John's suggestion had worked.

_Sam doesn't need me. _Dean couldn't help his bitter thoughts as he stripped off and stepped under the hot spray of the shower. _He's fine sitting out there by himself, scrawling on his paper. He probably doesn't even notice I'm gone. _

Unbidden, the memory of Sam's desperate kiss crept up on padded feet. The one thing Dean had never allowed himself to think about, frantically beating it down whenever the traitorous desires had slipped into his dreams. And Sam had never wanted it before. Sam had never been the one so willing to damn them both.

Cracked lips against his, burning hot like a firebrand. The faint flavour of pepper and a tiny lick of tongue that tasted of poisoned ambrosia. And all the times in the last few weeks that he'd curled up next to his brother, kept warm at night by the clean smell of his hair and the softness of his skin.

Dean slammed a hand up, shutting off the hot water. He pressed his fists against the shower wall, his head slumped forward, and stood under the hard drills of freezing water until shudders ran through him uncontrollably.

He stepped out of the bathroom fully dressed to the sight of Sam in the same position, half the paper in the pad drawn on and the pen clenched between whitened fingers.

After another half a day of sitting around in silence, the small TV blaring static and talk shows in the corner, Dean was itching out of his skin. He'd fed Sam another mug of warmed soup, his brother barely pausing to take it before returning his attention to the pad of paper. The thing was almost full, and Dean had taken furtive peeks at it, afraid Sam would catch him looking and pitch a fit. Each page was covered in funny stick drawings, like a child's coloring book. Things were out of proportion and two-dimensional, but each scene drawn was shaded in light and dark gradients of black pen. Dean got the impression that they would mean something if he could just figure out what was going on in Sam's fractured mind.

He had considered wrestling Sam into the bathroom and giving him a wash, but the dangerous thoughts that had tainted his own shower quickly dismissed the idea. Bathing would have to wait until Dean regained command of himself.

The food brought by the nice woman on the front desk was disappearing. If John was going to be longer than he'd said, Dean would have to get more supplies. However reluctant he was to leave Sam alone, a part of him was almost relishing getting out of the room and away from the situation, even for half an hour. Maybe he could gain some perspective in the time away from Sam that would put him back in control.

Halfway across the parking lot, Dean spun on his heel and strode back to the room. Then turned again and headed toward the Impala. Sam would be fine. And they needed more supplies.

With his head in confusion, Dean climbed into the car and drove away from the motel, denying the feeling blossoming in his gut that felt like relief.

* * *

He returned to the motel room laden with bags. Several tins of soup clanged against each other and a takeout menu from the local Chinese restaurant was clenched between his teeth. Dean unlocked the door with an irrational sense of foreboding.

The dank motel room smell greeted him as he stepped inside and he automatically glanced at the wall. The space was empty, Sam still sat on the bed engrossed in his drawing.

"Hey Sammy. You miss me?" Sam didn't look up. "Yeah, I missed you too." Dean muttered to himself, dropping the bags where he stood.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and his fished it out, closing the door on the outside world behind him.

"Hey dad."

"_Dean. How is he?"_ John started with no preamble.

"He's fine. You were right about the drawing thing. He's gone through a whole motel pad, having the time of his life apparently."

"_Good. Well I just called to let you know this haunting might take me a few days longer than expected. It's a ghost, been around for a while according to the locals. Apparently, it's reluctant to move on."_ Dean gritted his teeth.

"Okay dad."

"_As long as you boys are okay without me for a while longer?"_

"We're fine."

John hung up and Dean threw his cell onto the bed violently. It bounced off the mattress and clattered to the floor between the two beds. Sam glanced over at the noise, momentarily distracted. He was on the final few pages of the notepad, scrawling furiously.

Dean picked up one of the bags and sat down on the edge of Sam's bed.

"I, uh, brought you a present kiddo." He flushed as he said it, feeling ridiculously stupid. Winchesters didn't buy each other things. They hadn't celebrated Christmas or a birthday since Sam was eleven and John told them they couldn't afford to waste money on frivolous things now that they were both grown up.

Sam hadn't given any indication that he'd heard Dean, but the blush wouldn't subside. Roughly pulling the items out of the bag, Dean pushed a thick pad of A4 paper onto Sam's lap under the notepad. He reached out and caught Sam's free hand, gaining Sam's attention. Face heating up until he was sure it must be radiating warmth like an oven, Dean placed the box of colored crayons in Sam's upturned hand.

"They were on display at the store in town. I thought you might want to color in some of those weirdass drawings. Y'know, if you wanted." Dean decided not to let on that he had in fact driven to three different stores before finding the set containing one hundred different colors. And then he snatched the last box away from a little girl in pigtails and ran for the cashier before she'd realised what had happened.

Sam's hand tightened on the box, his head tilted to one side as he examined it like it was a mystical object. Dean reached out and opened it, pulling a few of the crayons out.

"They're like the pen. You can draw with them." He demonstrated as Sam watched in rapt attention. Surrendering the crayon as Sam reached out to take it himself, Dean went back to sorting out the supplies he'd bought.

As he turned in Sam's direction, he was surprised to see his brother not engrossed in producing pictures, but watching him with that tiny frown creasing the skin of his forehead. Dean felt the blush return and he flashed Sam a small but genuine smile before looking away, feeling like a girl on prom night and hating himself for it.

Getting Sam to take a shower was difficult, and not just because of Dean's oh-so-inappropriate not-so-little problem. He'd managed to wrench Sam away from his drawing and into the bathroom, but that was as far as it got. Sam stubbornly refused to step into the shower by himself, which resulted in Dean stripping them both down to boxers and climbing in with him, his entire body hot and uncomfortable. The tiny cubicle wasn't really big enough for two grown men, especially as Dean was proven right in thinking Sam was now taller than him.

Positioning his brother under the spray, Dean hoped Sam would take the hint, but the taller man just stood there looking at Dean bemusedly. So he sighed and got to work, lathering up a cloth with the cheap soap provided by the motel. He resolutely kept his mind off what he was doing, thinking of baseball and the president as he washed the broad expanse of skin presented to him.

Unfortunately Sam was unfairly distracting. Wet hair dripping in his eyes and rivulets of water trickling over pale skin, and Dean was practically panting to feel the _warmth _radiating from Sam's body.

He could feel Sam watching him as he worked, that deep and sharp attention fixed on him like a searchlight. It made his cock twitch in sodden boxers.

Drying Sam off was no better, Dean discovered whilst on his knees in front of his brother. He looked up, only to find himself at eye level with Sam's wet boxers. Which would need to be changed.

He stifled a groan and looked up into his brother's eyes. "Any chance you could take care of the rest of this by yourself?" Sam continued staring at him evenly. Dean huffed under his breath. "Of course not."

As detached as possible, Dean stripped his brother of the wet boxers, taking care not to look as his hands performed the task. He quickly got Sam into fresh clothes, mentally sighing in relief when it was over and Sam was fully dressed. Straightening up, he was caught by surprise when Sam leaned forward and rubbed the tip of his nose along the line of Dean's cheekbone.

"Fuck! Sam, what the hell?" He stumbled back, almost tripping over the pile of dirty clothes on the floor. Sam didn't look embarrassed, standing with head cocked to one side, hair in damp curlicues at his temples. Feeling completely off-balance and bewildered, stamping down on the rush of heat that seemed to pump all the blood in his body to fill the line Sam had traced along his face, Dean tried to breathe.

* * *

Sleeping was almost impossible. Dean tossed and turned, his thoughts catching and sticking on Sam. Sensing his baby brother's still presence in the other bed wasn't helping either.

Part of him was actually considering calling John and asking his father to drop the job, just get here as fast as possible. But he could hardly tell his dad that his mentally-disturbed little brother might be coming onto him, and Dean needed him there as a preventative measure.

Sam chose that moment to lurch up in his bed, the sheets flying. In the distilled moonlight Dean could see a fine sheen of sweat coating his forehead and cheek. Sam let out a thin whimper.

Dean was on his feet before the sound could taper off. "Sam?" Sam's hands came up to cradle his forehead. Dean reached out, unsure if he should attempt to touch his brother. Then he saw Sam's wide eyes, rapidly blinking, staring at him as if begging him to _do something, help me_. Dean felt useless and stupid.

He caught Sam as the taller man threw himself to one side. "Sammy, careful! What's wrong?" Sam wriggled in his arms, shoving away. Dean tried not to feel disappointed that apparently his brother had returned to his _don't touch me _phase. But then he saw what Sam was focused on.

That damn pad of paper. Before he could stop him, Sam was on the scummy motel floor, his fingers scrabbling feverishly at the paper and the crayons.

Dean watched him for a while, feeling worn thin. Finally his frantic scribbling seemed to subside a little and Dean pushed to his feet, seating himself on the floor beside Sam.

"Whatcha doin' Sammy?" Sam didn't look up. The crayon picture he was working on was hard to make out in the semi-dark. Dean squinted a little, intrigued despite his exhaustion.

Dean could see the vague shapes of figures on the paper, black scrawls surrounding them which he assumed meant it was night time in the picture. He leaned a little closer. One of the figures was clearly supposed to be a person, a stick figure in blue holding what appeared to be a brown curved stick. The blue person was standing opposite a grey oblong. The grey shape was reaching toward the person with tentacle-like limbs. Around both figures was a double circle in red and yellow, the colours overlapping. At the bottom of the page, Sam had drawn strange symbols in a spiky hand, one in pink, one in green, one in sky-blue, one in black. They meant nothing to Dean, and he slumped back with a sigh.

The pad fell from Sam's hands, tumbling to the floor with a thump.

"Are we done now, kiddo? Can we go back to bed?" Dean couldn't help the bite in his words. It wasn't like Sam was paying any attention to them anyway.


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I'm so glad you guys are enjoying the story :) This chapter; WINCEST, in big bold letters! Next update will be on Monday…

Chapter 5

John arrived late in the afternoon. Dean was on his bed, cleaning the already-spotless guns for the third time. Sam sat cross-legged on the carpet with his pad of paper and crayons. He'd ignored all Dean's attempts to get him off the thinly carpeted floor.

The knock on the door jolted Dean out of muddled and increasingly dark thoughts, the shotgun in his hand slipping onto the mattress. Sam didn't look up. His little brother had discovered a few hours ago that the paper could be removed from the pad, and had delighted in arranging picture after picture on the floor, until he was sitting surrounded by a sea of brightly coloured confusion on A4 sheets.

"Dean? It's me." His dad's low tone was comforting and Dean suddenly felt all of four years old again, before his mom was gone, when John would tuck him in to bed at night with the promise that nothing could hurt him.

He jumped up from the bed, sidestepping Sam's growing gallery, and opened the motel room door. John stood on the porch outside looking tired and dirty, and Dean wanted nothing more than to have his dad hug him.

"Dad." John smiled briefly, pushing past him and into the room. He stopped dead on sight of his youngest son. Dean closed his eyes and shut the door, preparing for a long discussion.

Sam didn't look up at the new presence in the room, his fingers a blur of movement as he scrawled.

"Sammy?" John sounded…scared, uncertain. Dean wanted to cry.

"He's been like this since he woke up. He doesn't talk, he just draws. I think he knows who I am, but he's…he's not right."

John crouched down beside Sam, giving no indication that he was listening to Dean's explanation. "Sammy, son, can you hear me? It's dad." The image of Sam suddenly responding to John's voice and coming to with much crying and hugging and relief flickered in Dean's mind. The vehement hope that Sam would ignore John took him by surprise.

"Dad…" Dean said, interrupting the moment.

John finally turned to Dean. "Son, we need to take him to a doctor. He needs to be looked at."

"What if they take him away?"

"Well, he can't stay like this." John gestured to Sam's hunched-up form. "Do you think he'd want to live like…like a retarded _child_ if he knew?"

Dean blinked. "Dad, he's right there. He's not _dead_."

"He's not himself either." John said gruffly. Beyond his dad, Dean noticed Sam's hand had stilled on the paper.

* * *

John booked the room next door to Dean's, bringing more food when he returned. Dean heated up more soup for Sam, kneeling in front of him on the floor and feeding the mug to his lips. Sam tried to help, both hands gripping the cup around Dean's. John watched wordlessly from the other bed.

"He's getting stronger now. He can almost hold it himself." Dean reached up and wiped Sam's mouth with his cuff. "He's gonna get better. It just…might take some time." Dean heard himself trying to defend his brother and wondered why he thought it would ever be different. He was always forced to choose sides between Sam and John, always had to pick one of their causes.

Of course it was a little different when his brother couldn't defend himself, and Dean would be damned if he was letting anything separate them again after so long apart. He'd take a broken Sam over no Sam any day.

Dean didn't know quite what he'd been expecting from his dad. That once John was here Sam would be okay? That John would take one look at his brother and know exactly what to do? Dean recognised for maybe the first time the pedestal he put his father on, the idol worship. John Winchester was an infallible object in Dean's mind, always having a plan, always _right_.

He could see how Sam might find that annoying.

John knelt beside him, scrutinising Sam closely. Sam stared right back. But when John stretched a hand toward his youngest son, Sam flinched away.

"He did that with me at first." Dean said. John blinked, his hand wavering in the air. Sam leant back as far as he could, his eyes distrustful, until John stood.

"I'm going to pick up some takeaway for dinner. You want anything?" Dean could hear the rejection in his dad's voice.

"Whatever you're having, dad."

As soon as the door closed behind their father, Sam was pressing himself into Dean's lap, insistent and suddenly desperate like they'd been kept apart for days. Dean fell backwards in his shock, his arms reflexively coming up to hold Sam safely. His little brother's face was tucked into his neck, his hands twisted in Dean's shirt.

"Sam, Sammy? What…" Sam whimpered, nuzzling at Dean's jaw line. Dean sucked in a breath. "Sam…" The rest of the sentence was cut off by Sam's mouth.

Dean let himself be kissed for a second, let himself feel every dry catch of Sam's lips, soon slicked by a wet tongue. He let Sam kiss him until his conscience was a shrill scream in his ears, and then he levered Sam off, holding him back with one arm.

"Sam, we can't. Not this." Sam apparently decided not to hear him, pushing back with surprising strength. His little brother's eyes were dark and half-closed as he began mapping out every inch of Dean's face with nose and mouth, savouring the tastes and scents he found there.

Dean's arm fell away limply. He couldn't allow himself to respond, to take what Sam was offering. But Sam felt so _good_, connected to him by the perfect press of their bodies, the touches like feathers and ice and fire. One arm lay around Sam's waist, just feeling the warmth of his brother. Dean's dick had certainly taken notice, hard against his zipper.

Sam flexed against him, bringing a thigh up to press between Dean's legs. Suddenly the urge to respond got a lot harder to fight. A tiny twitch of his hips caused cascades of heat to zigzag up and down his nerves and he groaned. Sam seemed to sense Dean's faltering resolve, but instead of pushing it until he broke, the younger man backed off.

"S-Sam?" Sam cocked his head to one side, so close their noses were almost touching. His hair fell forward in a soft curtain, brushing against Dean's face.

Before he could catch his breath again, Sam leaned forward and rubbed his cheek against Dean's. The rough stubble on Sam's face caught and rasped against his own. And then Sam was pushing himself up, picking up his crayon and paper as if nothing amiss had happened. Dean remained splayed out on the floor, his cock rock hard in his jeans, wondering what the _hell _was going on.

The door rattled and a second later John walked in, pausing to take in the sight of Dean on his back on the dirty carpet.

"Dean? What are you doing?"

He blinked, shoving himself to his feet and rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand. "Uh, nothing. I'm-I'm gonna take a shower."

"But I've got you a burger…"

"I'll eat it when I get out." Dean said, striding into the shower and closing the door with a shaky sigh.

* * *

He stepped out of the bathroom half an hour later to be met by John on the other side of the door. His dad was holding one of Sam's drawings.

"Dean, what the hell is this?" Dean blinked. The drawing John was holding was the same one Sam had been so insistent on creating in the middle of the night, the two figures surrounded by yellow and red circles.

"Sam drew it. Last night. Woke up just to do it, actually."

John stepped backward, his eyes fixed on the picture. A deep frown creased his forehead. He sank onto Sam's bed.

"Why, what is it?" Dean asked.

"It…it's the hunt I was on. Last night. The spirit. I used these symbols to bind it, ancient Tibetan sigils. I used a yew branch to ward it, salt and blood to purify the circle."

Dean stared blankly at the paper for a second longer, the childish clash of colors blurring together in his vision. He barked a laugh that caught in his throat. "What-no. You think…no! It's just a coincidence, dad. It doesn't mean anything. It's…a memory, or something. One of the hunts we did before Sam left. We've been on hunts that needed warding and purified circles. Sam just…had a nightmare, it's his way of dealing."

John stared at the paper for a full minute longer before putting it carefully aside. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

From his seat on the floor, Sam huffed air through his nose without looking up. Dean watched him, his mind spinning crazily.

* * *

Halfway through the night, Dean felt the bed dip and a warm body settle snug next to his. The light stroke of Sam's tongue at the back of his neck made him shiver involuntarily and he entertained thoughts of leaping up, jerking away out of reach of his _baby brother _and his sudden ambition to strip away all of Dean's defences lick by lick. But he was tired and comfortable and he'd just finished pounding the pillow into submission under his head. So he stayed still and let Sam wind his body into all of Dean's curves and told himself it wasn't everything he'd ever wanted.

* * *

Dean woke up slowly. Sam's nose was pressed into the skin under his jaw and his soft breaths puffed over his neck, even and gentle. Sometime in the night, Sam's hand had slipped under his shirt to rest along the line of his ribs. It felt reassuring, like Sam was built to be _right there_, as if that was his place. Dean half-opened his eyes, blinking languidly at the morning light floating through the crack of the curtains. His own arm was wrapped around Sam's waist, holding him close, and his conscience was silent.

His little brother shifted against him, awake now. He stretched his neck, brushing lips against Dean's. The knock on the door interrupted Sam before he could take it any further, and Dean sighed in what he hoped was relief, getting up to unlock the door.

"Morning, Dean. And, uh, Sam." John said, stepping into the room with two paper cups of coffee. Sam stretched in the bed, catlike and lazy. He didn't bother looking in John's direction, turning over onto his side and curling up with the covers wrapped around him.

"We should get going. We got a lot of miles to travel." Dean spun to face his father.

"What? Where are we going?" _Not so soon, he can't take Sam away so soon. _

"I've called a friend who might be able to help. She's a psychic. I was hoping she might be able to see into Sam's mind, find out what the problem is." At Dean's frown, John held up a hand in appeasement. "Look, I don't like the idea of people poking around in Sam's mind, especially when he can't give his consent. But she's good, if anyone can figure out what's going on, it's her. And it's either this or a doctor."

Dean looked across the bed at his brother. Sam was a mop of chocolate hair and a lump under the bed covers. "And this has nothing to do with the whole drawing thing last night?"

"Well…"

"Dad, it was a coincidence! We've been on _thousands _of hunts, just like that! Sam's not some kind of…some kind of freak." His nails bit into his palms.

"I know, Dean. I just…want to know what we're dealing with here. It's just a precaution."

Dean sighed and let his head drop forward in submission. "Okay, dad. Where are we going?"

John coughed. "Lawrence."

_

* * *

_They were going to _Lawrence_. After everything, after swearing to himself never to return there again, no matter what, and his dad just walks in and casually - _casually! _– tells him to pack up, as if it's no big deal. Dean chewed at his lower lip, changing gears with more force than necessary. 

John's truck was a black shadow in the forefront of his vision. His father didn't seem to feel any apprehension at returning to the place his wife was killed. If anything, John seemed embarrassed at having to go back, as if it was the site of some past failure he'd prefer not to revisit. Damn John and his stoic crap. He still hadn't told Dean anything about the woman they were going to see, the psychic that was going to probe around inside his baby brother's head.

Dean really wasn't comfortable with allowing anyone to violate Sam like that. His brother's thoughts were private and personal, even if they were a little…disjointed, at the moment. But if he were honest with himself, he was curious as to what exactly was going on in Sam's brain.

Sam, who was currently amusing himself in the passenger seat with his crayons and paper. Dean was kind of worried Sam might get car-sick like that and throw up all over the Impala's upholstery. Before they left, Dean had carefully collected up all of Sam's drawings and put them in the glove compartment, in easy reach if Sam decided he needed any of them. At the moment, Sam was involved in creating a colourful picture centring on a stick figure and what looked like a brown dog. It would have been sweet, had the two not been surrounded by inscriptions from the runic alphabet.

They spent all morning and most of the afternoon on the road. By the time John indicated to stop at a diner Dean was exhausted, blinking to try and wipe the repetitive lines on the blacktop from the backs of his eyelids.

Sam looked over at him as the slowed as if to say _stopping? Already? _Dean absently reached out and patted him on the arm.

Sam hadn't been in a public place since 'waking up', and Dean wasn't sure how he would handle it. But Sam allowed Dean to sit him in a corner booth, his eyes scanning the room disinterestedly before dropping to his drawing. John sat opposite Sam, trying not to stare.

The waitress walked over, flipping her hair and sticking out one hip when she saw Dean. "Hey honey, what can I get you?" She smiled and Dean returned it almost without thinking. She was pretty, in a plain sort of way, and if Dean had time to spare he might have spent an hour in the diner, drinking coffee and flirting a bit.

Before he could speak, John was brusquely snapping out an order for the three of them. The girl looked startled but quickly caught up, writing down the order and trotting away.

Dean opened his mouth but John was already talking. "Don't have time for any of that now, Dean. We have to look after Sam." Dean looked at Sam beside him, content in his own world. Irrational anger welled up inside him. _They _had to look after Sam? _He _was the one who'd done all of the looking after while John had been off in his own room, making phone calls and avoiding the sight of his youngest son. Dean looked blankly at the tabletop and didn't say a word.

Their food arrived while John was in the toilets, and the waitress seemed relieved to see Dean alone in the booth. Her eyes drifted over Sam's form as if he weren't there.

"So, how long y'all in town for?" She asked, bending forward as she put the plates of food down and giving Dean a good view.

"We're just stopping through. It's a shame, I'd definitely enjoy checking out the _sights _round here." Dean drawled.

The girl's smile turned distinctly dirty. One corner of Dean's mouth turned up and he thought about how long it had been since he last got laid. Except Sam was right there, and his mind was drifting to the day before, feeling the phantom press of Sam's skin against his own.

It was a few moments before he realised the girl hadn't spoken again. He glanced up at her face in time to watch the lascivious expression slowly dissolve into wide eyes and white shock. She was looking past Dean and he turned.

Sam was no longer concentrating on his picture. Instead he was staring hard at the waitress through the dark strands of his hair, his eyes narrowed and fox-sharp. Dean heard the stumble of the waitress as she practically ran from their table without another word. As soon as she was gone Sam went back to his drawing as if nothing had happened, leaving Dean shell-shocked and almost afraid.

Dean fed Sam mechanically, helping him to lift spoonfuls of stew to his mouth, the mushy lumps easy to chew and digest. Sam obediently ate everything and then drank a glass of thick strawberry milkshake through a straw. John didn't seem to notice the quiet between them or the paleness Dean _knew _must show on his face. The waitress waited until after they'd left the diner to collect their empty plates.

* * *

They stopped for the night in a tiny town that consisted of a motel, a bar and a garage, all sharing the same parking lot. Most of the rooms were already booked by long-haul truckers, their parked trucks lined up in front of the row of rooms and blocking the light from the street.

John booked two adjacent rooms, a double for his boys and a single for himself. What was going on between Sam and Dean he didn't know, but things had only gotten worse after their stop at the diner. He assumed that Dean was just having a hard time dealing with the state his brother was in, and he knew he hadn't been much help. Sam's condition scared him, more than any of the monsters he'd seen. At least with the supernatural there were signs, motives, predictable routines. His youngest son's mind had always been a mystery to him.

The picture his youngest drew had disturbed him more than he liked to admit. Even with Dean's too-quick denial, John couldn't stop thinking about those symbols. He was _positive _Sam hadn't been around when he'd been researching them as possible binding sigils for malevolent trapped spirits. Of course, Sam being Sam, he could have researched them on his own. The boy had an uncommon love of books and learning, and John had always been proud of it, even if he never told Sam. When he'd gotten into Stanford, after the anger and impotent rage had subsided, John was left with a feeling of awe for his youngest. Sam hadn't let anything slip, had worked just as hard on researching demons and learning Latin as he had on his schoolwork, and as a father John had felt so achingly _proud _of his boy for knowing his own mind and going after what he wanted with everything he had.

Missouri would know what to do. Sam would be safe there, protected. Dean wouldn't like leaving him, but it had to be done. Sam had to be _safe_.

John walked over to where Dean was standing beside the Impala. His older son looked shattered and raw, hands stuffed deep into his pockets and arms pinned to his sides like he was trying to hold himself in. Sam stood next to him, their arms touching. His youngest son's flitting gaze dancing across the parking lot as if there was too much for him to see and not enough time to take it all in. John studiously avoided meeting Sam's sharp eyes.

"Here. You're in room twenty-two, I'm next door. Get some sleep, we'll be up early tomorrow." Without waiting for Dean to reply John turned on his heel, listening to the footsteps as his children followed him to the rooms. He held in the heavy sigh that wanted to escape. Missouri would know what to do, and until then Dean could handle Sam and he could handle Dean. They would be okay. They could hold each other together for a while longer.

* * *

Dean threw himself on the nearest bed as soon as he walked into the motel room, not looking to see if Sam was following. His head was pounding and he felt strung-up and thin. His brother would be the death of him one way or another.

There was too much going on in his mind for him to focus on any one thing, too many problems, too many variables. Dean liked simple and direct; one plan, one solution. He wished his dad would just tell him what to do. But John didn't have a plan, or if he did he wasn't letting Dean in on it.

Dean stretched out on the bed, his hands hanging off the edges. His left hand hit something warm and furry, and he jerked back as if he'd touched poison ivy before realising that Sam had settled himself cross-legged on the floor beside him and Dean's hand had managed to find his little brother's head. Sam's hair had gotten long, Dean realised, long enough to touch the tip of his nose when he bowed his neck. Another thing to go on the list of 'Stuff For Dean To Do'. Right after he figured out how Sam was able to terrorize a waitress with one look.

"I'm gonna take a shower." He mumbled. Sam looked up at his voice, regarding him with bright eyes that held no comprehension. "Stay here and be good." Dean felt Sam's gaze tracking him as he walked to the bathroom door, a burning needle in his back.

As soon as the door was locked Dean sank to the floor. His vision was blurry and his chest felt sore and twisted. He knotted fists in his hair, distantly noting his own need for a haircut. The tears caught him off guard, the wracking sobs following closely until his entire body was convulsing as he tried to keep silent. His arms wrapped themselves around his midriff and locked on tightly.

The irony hit him and Dean managed to spit a laugh through his tears. He had his family back together, the only thing he'd ever wanted in his life, and he'd never felt so alone.

After his crying fit had tapered off, Dean decided to skip the shower. He splashed cold water on his face and stepped out into the room, wondering when it had gotten so dark outside. Before he could take another step, strong arms were around him and a long body pressed against his side. Dean stumbled, off balance by the sudden extra weight, and fell sideways onto the nearest bed. Sam didn't let go, one arm tightening around Dean's waist while a hand travelled up to stroke across his face in touches soft as petals.

Dean's breath caught in his throat and he blinked, seeing the grey outline of Sam's features inches from his face. The dull light from the window made his eyes shine like molten iron.

Sam's gentle fingers traced a slow path down the centre of his face; forehead to nose tip to lips to chin. It left a chilled stripe behind and Dean shivered.

The kiss when it came was just as soft, and Dean blamed his vulnerable state for leaving him so open, so easy to break down. His eyes fluttered shut and his head tilted to give Sam better access. His own arms found their way around Sam's slender frame, pulling Sam to him and squeezing, like his baby brother could be absorbed into Dean's own body if they could just get close enough.

His cock was hard against Sam's thigh and Dean pressed into the stretch of muscle with a tiny gasp. He snaked a hand into Sam's long hair, tangling it around his fingers and keeping Sam's mouth on his own. Which Sam didn't seem to have any objection to, his own hand low on Dean's back, stopping Dean from moving away.

Dean wondered vaguely who had taught Sam to kiss so _dirty_. His mouth was hot and slow and all tongue, pulling Dean in and melting him down. He was making some very embarrassing noises. Sam didn't seem to mind, flexing around him to push their two bodies closer. His brother's huge hands stroked over his skin, skimming under clothes and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Dean found himself helplessly rutting against Sam's taut thigh muscles, whimpering into his open mouth. It felt like his brother was pulling him apart and moulding him into new shapes with each touch of his clever fingers. It was too good, and more than Dean ever deserved or did anything to earn. It was _wrong_, and their dad was right next door behind the thin plywood wall, and Dean would probably be arrested if anyone ever found out.

And then Sam pulled away and Dean opened his eyes, _whatwhywhat _on the tip of his tongue, until Sam shifted _up _with the leg pressed to Dean's cock, and all he could see were his brother's eyes with their blank emotionless shine as he came.

* * *

The filtered sunlight woke Dean from a deep and dreamless sleep. His neck ached and he rolled over on the bed, confused as to why he was still wearing the same dirty jeans and scratchy tee shirt he'd been dressed in the day before. His eyes fell on his little brother, sitting on the second bed and scribbling on his pad of paper like his life depended on it.

Dean's boxers were stuck to his skin under the jeans. He stood on shaky legs, collecting fresh clothes and walking quickly to the bathroom. Sam didn't look up as he passed, and Dean looked away. John would be here any minute and he'd be expecting Dean to have them ready to leave promptly.

Dean didn't know what he had expected from Sam. Some acknowledgement, maybe. Some kind of reaction. Not the complete indifference of every other day, the silent stillness only broken whenever he felt the urge to start another one of those goddamned drawings. They'd broken one of the iron-cast rules, gone so far over the line that Dean felt dizzy thinking about it.

John was almost as quiet as Dean was, lost in his own thoughts and the newspapers he'd managed to pick up somewhere between the motel and the diner they were eating in. Dean ate his burger staring at his plate.

He carefully didn't pay any attention to the waitress this time. Sam didn't either, but Dean wasn't sure if that was because hewasn't flirting with her or because this waitress didn't offend Sam in the same mysterious way the other had.

After they'd eaten, John would again lead them across the country. Dean could practically _sense _Lawrence approaching, nearer and nearer like a thundercloud. His knuckles were tight around his knife and fork and his lip was sore from nervous chewing.

It would take them a few more hours. A few more hours and for the first time in twenty-two years he would be back in _that_ place, the place where it all started to go wrong. The thought made the back of his neck prickle. Sam twitched beside him, the crayon in his fingers slipping out of his grip and onto the fornica with a clatter. Absently Dean picked it up and handed it to his brother.

Sam's long fingers closed around his own, a brief touch that crackled with electrical sparks. It felt strangely soothing. Dean glanced sideways to find Sam watching him with cocked head and eyes soft and dark as midnight, holding their own silent secrets.


	7. Chapter 6  Interlude

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Okay, so technically this isn't a proper chapter, as the name suggests, and there is no actual story advancement… But insane!Sammy wanted to have his say, so this is the first three chapters from Sam's point of view, up until he 'wakes up' :) And I have to say this was the _most fun thing ever _to write (I'm not sure what that says about my state of mind…) so I hope you guys will like it :) it also has the benefit of explaining a few things, 'cause I know up until this point Sam has been a complete and very frustrating enigma! I'm not one hundred percent sure this fits in between the last chapter and the next, so please feel free to let me know if it doesn't quite work for you where it is. And as always, thank you guys for reading and reviewing, keep it up because I love hearing what you all think!

Chapter 6 - Interlude

Sam was so lost.

It threw him back to when he was four years old and his dad had taken him and Dean to the big grocery store to stock up for a long trip. He'd been standing by the tinned spaghetti in tomato sauce, looking at all the brightly coloured labels. There were red and blue coloured tins that contained pasta shaped like Spiderman, pink Barbie tins that came in two different sizes, the eponymous green Heinz tins filled with baked beans, some with mini hotdogs. Little Sam had been fascinated to see them, millions and millions of stacked tins on shelves taller than his daddy. And then he'd turned around and Dean and daddy weren't there. They'd _gone_, disappeared, left him behind. Suddenly the rows upon rows of neatly ordered shelves were terrifying, too big for him to comprehend by himself. There was _so much_, all different and confusing and nothing familiar to ground him.

He remembered his tiny child's heart racing in his chest, beating so hard he could feel it choking him. There had been no time to stop and think, panic dictating his actions and forcing him into a blind run, up and down aisles that made no sense anymore. Freezer cabinets of meat the size of his head and bigger, bags of peas and carrots, chillers filled with more milk than he could ever want to drink, dog food in plastic sacks, tubs of margarine. Everything was incomprehensible to his four-year-old self. Words had no meaning to him yet, the letters recognisable by themselves, but Sam had been unable to work out how to put them together.

It was both exactly and in no way like that experience.

Everything was colours and movement and chaos. He was falling and flying together, and yet sometimes he felt like he hadn't moved in an age. Sometimes he saw Jess, flashes so vivid it was like they were happening.

They had already happened? Or had he just been dreaming? Maybe he was dreaming now.

Jess, laughing with her head thrown back, her face up close to his in a soft kiss, a sweet smile. Jess, lying prone on the ceiling of their apartment with her belly slit open like a gutted fish. Her hair a blonde halo spread around her head, like a stained glass window of the Virgin Mary. But god couldn't save her.

_Oh, Jess._

He was both lost and trapped at the same time; trapped in this place of insanity that showed him things he never wanted to see. He wandered aimlessly, his shattered mind an empty space without anything to hold him down, floating in the sea of psychedelic colours and pictures. Sometimes he saw people he knew, drifting past him, wrapping around him. He always tried to grab hold to them, but they were slippery and he was too weak.

Mostly he saw people he didn't know, people he'd never met before, in places he'd never been. He'd seen a brunette woman with a twist to her lips, using a steak knife to carve up a screaming naked man who'd been tied to a bed. The sun had been setting outside the window of the bedroom and Sam couldn't recall the simple disappearance of the sun ever looking so beautiful. He saw a little girl hiding under her bed as an ephemeral woman stalked her house, making glasses smash and mirrors crack without touching them. A dark creature trailed silently behind a couple as they made their way on foot to the nearest town, leaving their broken-down car in the wooded road behind them. The night had been thick like a physical presence, malevolent and wanting.

At first Sam had tried to force his way free of these scenes, to close his eyes and deny them access. But maybe he didn't have eyes in this place, wherever it was, and no matter what he tried, nothing _worked _the way it should.

Now he just let them happen, let them come and immerse him. He was too tired and it was too hard.

He felt himself drifting further and further away, but from what, he didn't know. Couldn't remember. All he had now were the colours, mottled and phantasmagorical and madness-inducing. It wasn't important anymore, whatever it was.

Sometimes memories came to him, snapshots of time that hit him like a bullet, and he thought to himself, _how could I forget? _Promised himself he wouldn't this time, made himself cling to the memory like a starving dog with its teeth in a raw steak.

Pictures of Dean, waxing the Impala and laughing, flicking soapy water at Sam. His dad looking serious and poring over some old book. Rebecca screaming from the other side of her bedroom door, the sound of her fingernails scratching uselessly on the varnished wood.

They disappeared silently after a while, padding away on velveteen cats' paws no matter how hard he tried to keep them. He consoled himself with the knowledge that eventually another would come along and find him.

He could hear things occasionally, things that weren't part of the pictures in front of him. Distant sounds, the voices of people he didn't know, or at least didn't _think_ he knew. But memory was just a word in this endless moment, fluid and ever-changing and leaving him behind.

Squeaking shoes on linoleum. The quiet rustle of paper like birdwings. A young woman's voice; _How are we feeling today...blood sugar levels are low…look at the begonias, aren't they pretty…_ Sometimes a man spoke, but he never addressed Sam. It intrigued him at first but soon faded into background noise. Not important.

And then one day, one second or minute or coincidental flash of time, Sam saw his brother. Dean on his own, driving the Impala with his mouth set and his eyes red-rimmed. And for the first time in an eternity he remembered _emotions. _Dean was sad. His big brother was sad, and Sam wanted to comfort him. The feeling of _wanting _something was startling, a short sharp shock of ice water on his face, and for that tiny moment in time Sam felt everything click back in place.

He stared up at a white ceiling, confined in his body. It was suffocating after so long floating free, being allowed to expand across vast distances and feeling lighter than air. He was lying down. Chilled air stroked his bare arms, and the sensation raised goosebumps along his skin. And there was a man in front of him, a man he didn't know. The man wore a white lab coat and looked at him with wide terrified eyes. This wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to be here.

Sam remembered his brother crying.

"Dean?"

The man said something, but the pull of the atmosphere tugged Sam free of his body again and he went willingly.

* * *

After drifting in the colours for another lifetime, Sam was suddenly and unceremoniously pulled back to his limp body again. This time there was no preamble, no slideshow of Dean or anyone else. One second he was watching as a woman was being torn apart by something with claws as long as her forearms, the next he was forced into the restraining body of flesh.

He was sitting, and the position felt so abstract to him he wanted to laugh. But he couldn't remember how, couldn't find the right instructions to command his mouth and voicebox to work. There was a big man in front of him, as big as his dad but without the beard. The man wore a grey uniform and was looking at something above Sam's head. The novelty of having a head again was interrupted by the sudden influx of _thoughts_, thoughts that weren't his own.

_gun have to go for the gun don't want to kill anyone sammysammysavesam sorry have to get _out _now savesam_

_what's he doing what's in the pocket what's he gonna do_

Sam felt his head fall back, his eyes (the novelty of having _eyes _again) catching on another man behind him. _Dean_. Dean wearing a lab coat and reaching into his pocket.

Then he heard other thoughts, _more _thoughts. Not coming from Dean, nor the man, coming from people he couldn't see or know. Millions of streams, all flowing to him like a flash flood, like he was in the centre of some huge unseen circuit board, all hitting him, and they _hurt_. Dean said something and the spoken words seemed faint and incomprehensible to him. Then he was running and Sam was being pushed in front of him toward a door.

He fell away again to the elated touch of Dean's thoughts.

* * *

Sam felt the pull of his body more keenly now. Could feel it like an anchor, keeping him tethered down while he flew high in the mystical world of colours and pictures. Sometimes he could even push himself into it, when he worked up enough strength. But it was exhausting and left him strung out and thin.

Being confined to one tiny body wasn't appealing anymore. It was weak and everything around him was dim compared to floating with the colours. And the feelings that came with it made him _ache_,both the physical and the emotional weight of them.

When he was in his body he remembered more. Memories came to him like drips of water, insubstantial but stronger for the accompanying emotions.

And they weren't just _his _emotions either. He could feel too much for one person, too many confusing sensations pulling him in every direction. He touched into his skin and felt the tight grip of grief for a woman's grandmother on her deathbed, the anticipation of an old lady waiting for her favourite TV show to begin, the melodramatic despair of a teenager with a hopeless crush, the agony of a man who had caught his wife cheating on him two nights' previous, the pure simple awe of a child discovering a nest of baby birds. He hadn't been able to feel all this before, he was pretty certain of that.

It was easier to stay away, to be an impartial observer of other people's tragedies as they were played to him like movie strips through the sea of colours. Everything was brighter there, every beam of light a piercing radiance, every shadow an endless void. He didn't have to eat, to sleep, to brush his teeth. All he had to do was watch.

But inevitably he would return to his body, if only for a second, and Sam couldn't understand the draw. The compulsion to feel the pain of the physical.

But there were _moments_. Moments that confused him, that made him feel disoriented. He pressed into himself for a second and felt the early morning glow of light drifting through the thin curtains. He was lying on a bed. It wasn't _his _bed (did he have a bed?) but yet there was something…

Heat spread down one side of his body, and without moving he knew it was Dean. His brother, lying next to him, keeping him safe. A flickering image of ten-year-old Dean picking little Sammy up from the ground, kissing his scraped knee and making him giggle. Dean's thoughts were disjointed, fluttering around like manic butterflies, a sharp contrast to his absolute stillness. Sam felt his mind delving into them, grasped onto Dean's darting consciousness and let it take him from one subject to the next. It jumped from _hunting _to _dad _to _money _to _motel room_ to _samsamsam_. Images of himself in a hospital bed, lying on various motel beds with an IV in his arm. Sam watched himself curiously, remembering what he looked like. Accompanying Dean's thoughts was a feeling of barely-suppressed desolation. It itched something inside of Sam. But then he was being drawn away again, and this time without quite knowing why, he tried to grab hold, to stay.

* * *

Floating in the colours was what bliss would feel like, Sam imagined, if he could feel things like he used to. Or maybe his idea of bliss would have been just this; to feel nothing ever again. It was neither good nor bad, neither positive nor negative. He had a vague recollection of fear and love, anger and elation. He had felt them all, once. He felt them when he returned to his body, only they weren't _his_, they didn't belong to him.

Did he really want to go back to that? He thought about letting go, just releasing his grip on his body. He knew he could do it. He would be free, free to drift and see and be silent witness to atrocities that would have disgusted and horrified him before.

But there was some reason, something that kept that tenuous string tying him to his flesh from snapping.

Dean?

Sometimes he could recall his brother in perfect detail, as if he was standing in front of him. Other times he could only conjure up a name that had no face. It…_concerned _him when he couldn't find Dean.

Occasional memories would pass him by still, travelling in the opposite direction, guided by an unseen and unfelt wind. He took them in with a tinge of something like nostalgia, but the urge to keep hold of them had passed. They didn't matter, they weren't relevant anymore. He had no need of them.

Sam wondered, when he thought to wonder, just how much time had passed. Since he arrived here, since…something happened. Something that made him break free of himself and become _this_, whatever _this _was. It felt like millennia. It felt as if he'd been here always. He would accept that, if not for the tiny strand tethering him to his body. The tiny strand that was stretching to breaking point, fraying around its core.

He let himself float.

* * *

"_Sammy, I need…I need you to…" _Dean. His brother, talking. Sam couldn't see him, didn't want to go back. Not yet. But there was something in Dean's voice…

"_Please. Sammy, please." _Something. He tried to push it away and go back to the colours, to the lights and strange abstract scenes. But the _something _had a hook in him. Pulling him back to face it every time he turned away. Dean wanted him, needed him to do something. And for whatever unknown reason he felt compelled to do it. Because. Because Dean asked?

He dismissed it, losing it in the mist.

And then there was…a jolt. He was surprised (could he still feel surprise? Apparently he could.) A jolt. On the thread matching his consciousness to his body, the thread that was stretching to breaking point, stretching and stretching.

Sam followed it back, reeled himself in with almost painful effort. He landed in his unresponsive body, panting with exertion. The thoughts and emotions came instantaneously and it was enough to make him let go. Except in the tiny fraction of time it took him to unwind himself he was wrapped in the agonising feeling of _loneliness_, _loss _and _ohgodsammy_, and the feeling carried the unmistakable scent of _Dean_.

He opened his eyes.


	8. Chapter 7

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter :) Here's the next one, hope you guys enjoy…

Chapter 7

At first, Dean felt used. He hated himself for being so goddamn girly, even in his own head, but Sam didn't seem to _need _him in the same way that Dean needed his brother. Sam's expression never changed from that alert and intensely direct stare, never a hint of that brilliant smile he once possessed. He would slide into bed with Dean, no matter what Dean said. Sam just continued regardless.

And the most embarrassing thing was, Dean's cock couldn't get enough. Sam only had to brush a hand against his and suddenly Dean was aching for him, for more. Each night Sam would coax his body into higher pleasure, wringing orgasm after orgasm from him until he couldn't move, lay there limp and sweaty and shivering uncontrollably as the aftershocks ran through him in waves.

But then Sam would roll Dean onto his side, spooning up behind him. He would lay one big hand low on Dean's belly, twine the fingers of the other with one of Dean's and then nuzzle at the damp spiky hair at the nape of Dean's neck. And Dean slid into sleep feeling safer and more loved than he could ever remember feeling.

They'd reached Kansas a week ago. John had left them at a motel, telling Dean to take care of Sam while he went on some unknown trip. Dean wanted to bitch at the man, demand to know why they'd been dragged halfway across the country on John's urgent orders only to end up languishing in some motel half a mile from their destination. But he didn't. Didn't say a word. It was kind of darkly funny; Sam was the one who did the questioning and the protesting. With him silenced, Dean couldn't find his own voice to do it for the both of them.

But - and he hated himself for being happy about this - it did give him more time alone with Sam.

More time to sit pressed close together on the motel bed, Sam drawing feverishly and Dean watching TV and revelling in the simple ability to _touch_. He could reach up and stroke Sam's hair away from his eyes if he wanted to. And god he wanted to, so badly that sometimes he thought he'd choke on it. He rarely gave into the impulse though. Sam initiating _something _was one thing, Dean doing it was another. Because no matter how he looked at it, he was still taking advantage of his mentally disabled little brother.

Sam was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed when Dean woke up. His brother had already gone through the pad of paper Dean bought; motel pads making do until Dean could run out and pick up another.

He looked up as Dean pushed himself into a sitting position, his dark hair falling into eyes that revealed nothing.

"Mornin' Sammy." Dean rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heel of one hand, scrubbing it through his hair.

Sam blinked once and went back to his drawing. The crayons were being run down into stubs as well. He should buy a second box, just to be safe.

Dean's cell phone trilled from the dresser. Sam didn't seem to notice, only glancing away from his paper when Dean stumbled from the bed, trailing bedclothes in his wake.

"Hello?"

"Dean."

"Dad. Where are you?" Dean's senses went on alert, his back straightening like his father was in the room with him.

"I'm heading your way. You still in the motel like I told you?"

"Yessir."

"Good. I'll be there in a few hours, and then we'll take Sam to Missouri's."

"Take Sam where?" Dean blinked. Missouri? What were they doing in Kansas then, if this psychic was in Missouri?

"Missouri, that's the name of the woman we're going to see."

"Oh."

"Have him ready when I get there." John hung up without waiting for a reply.

Have him ready. Like Sam was a child again, needing someone's help to get dressed in the morning. Dean frowned, looking over at his brother sitting on the bed in boxers. Sam _did _need someone to dress him. But yet he had no trouble working out how to drive Dean crazy with a touch. Had _learned_ the best ways to make him come. If he could learn that, why wouldn't he relearn what he already knew? Dean shook his head. He didn't have time to ponder the mysteries of Sam's addled mind.

"Okay Sammy, let's get cleaned up and ready for breakfast."

Sam could eat by himself now, but he didn't like to use knives and forks. Dean had found this out the hard way after ordering his brother oatmeal the first morning they'd been here. Sam disregarded the spoon completely and instead dipped fingers in the thick mess, paying no attention to the fact that they were in a diner filled with people. Dean had been struck dumb watching the younger man lick oatmeal from his hand, tongue snaking between his fingers in an unintentionally erotic display. This new Sam was always one hundred per cent focused on whatever he was doing, meticulous as he went about the task. It turned Dean on harder than anything.

Now he made sure to order only soup in a mug or something Sam could eat with his hands. Trial and error. It was inappropriate for Dean to be squirming in his seat five feet away from a family with young children eating their breakfast.

This morning he'd ordered Sam pancakes, cutting them up himself when they came so that Sam could pick up the pieces with his fingers. It only brought about a mild hard-on, which Dean thanked God for.

He reached over just in time to stop Sam running maple syrup-covered fingers through his hair.

* * *

John turned up just before midday.

"How's he been?" His dad looked over at Sam briefly before his eyes came to rest on Dean. It irritated Dean for reasons he couldn't say. That his dad was so willing to see Sam as dead before, and that he couldn't see him as a functioning adult now. So maybe Sam _was_ hunched over on the floor, scribbling away like his life depended on it and chewing on his thumb. It didn't mean he was a child or some kind of mental-deficient.

"Sam's been fine. I've been fine. How've you been, dad?" John either didn't notice or chose not to acknowledge Dean's veiled sarcasm.

"Okay. Let's pack up and get out of here, Missouri's expecting us."

Dean automatically started packing their stuff into duffles, stepping around Sam who paid him no heed at all. It could be worse, he supposed. Sam could be trying to jump him in front of their father. But so far his brother seemed to have a better sense of their dad than he did, one minute nuzzling Dean's neck and the next on the other side of the room, all seconds before John opened the door.

"So what exactly is this woman gonna do?" Dean asked.

"She's gonna…probe him, I guess. Whatever psychics do. Look into his mind and see what's going on."

Dean tried not to flinch. Hopefully she wouldn't look too far. Although if she was that good a psychic, she wouldn't even have to look into Sam's head to see what they'd been doing together. Dean was pretty sure he was advertising it in his thoughts to anyone who walked past.

"So, will she be able to help?" He tried to get his head back on track.

"I don't know. But hopefully she'll be able to find out if there's anything…supernatural, doing this."

Dean repressed a sigh. "Dad, I already told you, there's nothing _wrong _with him. Not like that. We'd know if there was."

"Better to be safe." His father insisted, glancing sidelong at Sam.

They drove across town, Dean trailing John's truck with Sam in the passenger seat focusing on his fingers playing along the creases of his jeans. They turned onto a side street lined with semi-detached houses, all pleasant and so alike Dean thought he might throw up at the thought of actually _living_ in one of them. This normal had once been Sam's highest ambition, and no matter how hard he tried Dean couldn't find the appeal in it. Everyday houses, everyday cars, everyday lives. All of it so blindingly monotonous and dull. Dean stroked a hand along the wheel of the Impala, feeling the hard cracks of leather beneath his fingertips and wondering why anyone would need more.

The house John stopped in front of was one of the same, only differentiated by an abundance of bright flowers in hanging baskets and painted flower-pots on the porch.

He'd been expecting something different for the residence of a powerful psychic, something…flashier.

John stepped out of the truck. Before he could take a step toward the Impala, the front door of the house was thrown open. Dean had a flashback to the last house John had brought them to and the strange woman who seemed to know his father a little too well for Dean's liking. But if he was expecting more of the same treatment here, the notion was soon dispelled as the psychic called Missouri made herself known.

Missouri was a short black woman with a smile that matched the flowers on her porch. Dean looked her over as she made her way toward the two cars. He couldn't guess her age; she could be anything from twenty-five to fifty. She bustled down the steps, hands spread wide to cup John's face like he was a favoured nephew. His dad smiled fondly at her and Dean saw some of the worry lines fade from around his mouth.

"John Winchester, where have you been? I've been expecting you for days! Now, you and your boys come on inside, I've put a pot of coffee on and little Sandra down the street just brought me some fresh cookies over this morning."

Dean climbed out of the car, leaving Sam where he was for the time being. His baby brother didn't seem to mind, now absorbed in fraying the hole at the knee of his jeans. Missouri and John both looked over as he straightened.

"Uh, hi." He said, feeling uncomfortable. "I'm…"

"Dean. No need for introductions, honey." Missouri smiled warmly at him. "We've met before, but you probably wouldn't be remembering that, now. You were just a boy." Her smile turned wistful for a moment.

Dean blinked. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting from a psychic woman, but it was definitely not _this_, being welcomed like he was family. He wondered if she could really read his mind.

"Well, you bring that brother of yours out here, and we'll go on into the house." It was an order given in a careless and airy tone and Dean barely caught himself before he could say 'yes ma'am' and salute.

Missouri turned back to John and the two made their way toward the house, John offering his arm to the older woman with a gentlemanly manner that Dean rarely saw his father display. He watched bemusedly for a second, waiting for her to turn back and start cursing him for incestuous desires or something. When she just continued walking to her door, he shrugged to himself and went to help Sam out of the car.

* * *

Sam sat quietly in the wooden chair Dean steered him to, drinking milk through a straw and picking at the cookie Dean had broken into pieces for him. John kept glancing over at Sam as he ate, a frown darkening his features. Dean didn't want to try and work out his dad's thoughts.

Missouri on the other hand didn't seem fazed by his black hole of a brother. She carried on light conversations about trivial things while they ate her cookies, and didn't hesitate to break another into chunks after Sam had finished his. She didn't seem _afraid _of Sam in the same way their father did, and had no reservations about meeting his eyes when he looked at her. Dean thought maybe he loved her a little bit for it. She busied herself in the kitchen, which was as bright and cheery as the outside of her house. There were even scatters of magnetic animals on the refrigerator door.

"So, Missouri. Can you do anything for Sam?" John asked bluntly once the cookies were eaten and the coffee had been drunk.

Missouri didn't answer straight away, fussing with clearing the table. She settled herself on a chair facing John over the kitchen table with undue care before she met his eyes. "It's not as simple as that, John. You should know that by now. I can look into his mind, read the surface, but I can't _fix _him."

"I wasn't expecting you to…"

"Yes, you were." Missouri said. There was no trace of anger on her placid face. "And anyone else who claims to be able to straighten out his head isn't someone you should trust."

"But you _could_, you could find out what's wrong and…"

"And what?" The small woman suddenly seemed to grow in size before Dean's eyes, becoming something formidable and uncrossable. "And take it out? _Alter _your son's mind? You don't want that, John. I can tell you right now, there's nothing in that boy that isn't _him_. If I were to go in there and find what's causing this, _if _it's even that simple, then removing it wouldn't be an option because it would be removing a part of _Sam_."

John sighed heavily, lowering his head to stare at the wood grain of the table. His hands cupped around his coffee mug as if he was trying to warm them with the heat. "But he can't stay like this. We can't take care of him, it's not practical."

"Dad, we're not going to _abandon _him!" Dean broke into the conversation. It felt like he was going to have to argue the same point forever. Weariness hit him like a sucker punch to the gut. "It's _Sam_. Even if he is like this I'm not gonna leave him by himself somewhere just so we can go hunting!"

He looked over at Sam just in time to see his younger brother's eyes narrow and dart away from their father's face.

Missouri reached over and covered Dean's twined hands with one of her own, squeezing. "Dean, honey, why don't you and Sam go into the living room for a while. You can watch some TV while I talk to your daddy." The tone didn't leave any room for argument and Dean found himself on his feet before he knew he was going to move.

The living room was decorated in earthy tones, knotted throw rugs on the floor and glass vases containing more flowers on the surfaces. Dean stopped in the doorway, feeling distinctly out of place among the picture frames and knick-knacks. His baby brother didn't seem to have the same problem. Sam walked straight in as if he owned the room and settled cross-legged on one of the rugs on the floor. He looked up at Dean expectantly, dark eyes unwavering. Dean absently pulled the crayons and new pad of paper out of his bag and handed them over.

He thought maybe Sam smiled as he took them, just a small twitch of lips, but when he looked again there was no trace of it.

* * *

"Dean?" The voice pulled him out of a nap Dean hadn't known he'd fallen into. "Dean." He blinked. John stood in front of the muted TV with hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

John was looking at Dean oddly. "Dad? What?"

It was then he realised that he wasn't the only one who'd decided on an impromptu nap. Sam had somehow curled his body up on the floor beside Dean with his head pillowed on his big brother's thigh. Apparently whatever sixth sense Sam developed that told him when John was about to come into a room didn't work while he was sleeping.

Dean flushed. He met John's eyes and looked away fast, busying himself with rearranging Sam on a sofa cushion. Sam made a tiny noise in the back of his throat and one hand reached out to paw at Dean's leg.

John seemed content to pretend he hadn't seen anything. "Missouri says she'll read Sam tomorrow morning, after she's had time to prepare."

"Prepare? For what?"

John frowned. "Now's not the time for questions, just be grateful she's willing to do it. We can stay here tonight. There're two guest bedrooms so Sam can have one and one of us can sleep on the couch."

"I'll share with Sam." Dean said without thinking.

John looked at him sharply.

"Uh, I mean…I'll take the floor, 'cause he might wake up in the night and freak out." Dean stammered. "Someone should be there to watch him."

John watched him for a long moment with an unreadable expression. Dean was about ready to start squirming in his seat when the older man just gave a brusque nod and left the room without comment. On the floor beside him, Sam wriggled until his head was pressed against Dean's thigh again, his eyes tightly closed.

* * *

Missouri sat across the kitchen table facing Sam. Her hands held his lightly and she stared at him with half-closed eyes.

Dean stood in the doorway at his father's side. He'd expected some sort of special ceremony; atmospheric candles or tarot cards or something. Not this, his brother sitting in the same chair he'd eaten breakfast on an hour earlier and the dirty dishes still soaking in the sink. But he kept his mouth firmly shut.

Missouri was taking deep breaths, in through the mouth and out through the nose. She sat motionless, as she'd been doing for the last five minutes. Surprisingly enough Sam seemed content to forgo his usual manic colouring spree and imitate the small woman. His brother held Missouri's gaze unabashedly. Dean wondered if they were communicating in some way he couldn't read. It brought up a spit of jealousy in his stomach and he felt stupid for it.

Finally Missouri let out a heavy breath and seemed to deflate. Sam remained in place as she untangled their hands.

"So?" John began without preamble. "What's wrong with him?"

Missouri closed her eyes before answering in a slow and measured voice.

"John, I told you yesterday, there's nothing _wrong _with him. It's all him in there. But," She paused "there's…something."

"Something?"

Missouri nodded sombrely, her dark eyes meeting Dean's almost furtively. "Yes honey. I hate to be the one to have to tell you like this, but…Sam _is_ a psychic."

Dean blinked. "He's what?" He wanted to be surprised, shocked by the confirmation. Except while he'd been so vigorously denying it to his father, the sneaking suspicions had taken root.

Missouri laboriously rose from the table, like it had weakened her to do the reading on Sam. She didn't meet anyone's eyes, walking over to the sink and beginning to wash the dishes instead. Dean could feel the tension radiating from his father beside him.

"What's causing this?" The older man asked in clipped tones.

Missouri sighed heavily before turning to answer. "It's his own power. It's too strong for him to handle, it came on too fast for him to adjust. Sam can see things, people in trouble. Imagine," her forehead creased as she searched for the right words "imagine there are levels of reality. Most people can only see the one, the physical level that we live in. But there are others, ones that can only be accessed by certain people. Psychics, like me, and Sam. I can…read minds, if you like," the corners of her mouth turned down as she said it, as if she found the cheap phrase derogatory.

"That's only one level, though. I see the surface, what people are thinking. And I've had practise at shutting the thoughts I don't want out. Other psychics can read empathic waves, sense feelings. And some can feel the heightened emotions of people in trouble. They get…_visions_, of a kind. Sam…well, Sam seems to be able to read all of that, and maybe more." Missouri met John's eyes then, her face ashen. "From what you've told me, this was probably triggered by the demon's attack on his girlfriend and then his friends. He's probably always had latent talents, but they should have grown slowly. It seems like his gifts were unlocked all at once."

"So," Dean started, trying to keep the waver out of his voice. "He's been able to see all of this…stuff, all at once?" He vaguely wondered what Sam had been seeing in his own mind, all those nights he'd been locked in fear and despair.

Missouri nodded sadly. "That's exactly what I'm saying, honey. Even the development of one of those gifts is a terrible thing to try and handle. I've-I've never seen a psychic with Sam's abilities before. Apparently, the only way Sam could deal with it was to…shut down, to try and limit his sensory input."

Dean felt light-headed. He stepped toward the table in a daze, intending on sitting down before he fell on his ass. Except apparently his hand had latched onto the doorframe without his knowledge. His fingers were digging into the wood tight enough to leave nail marks and it took a second to will the muscles to release.

John seemed to be taking the revelation with his usual stoicism. Only Dean could see the minute tells that told him his father was as shaken as he was.

"What…what can we do?"

Missouri pulled out a chair for him and Dean sank gratefully into it. His eyes met Sam's and he couldn't help himself scanning those empty holes for any sign that would tell him it had all been a mistake, that Sam had been messing around this entire time and now he'd come to himself with a teasing smile.

Sam tilted his head to one side and blinked languidly.

"We can't do anything." Missouri's firm words had Dean's attention in a flash.

"What? What the hell do you mean, we can't do anything? There has to be _something_!"

She shook her head gently. "Dean, sweetie, I know you're scared for your brother. But while he's like this, no one can do anything for him. He has to work it through by himself." Missouri reached out and patted the back of his hand in a way that was supposed to be reassuring. Dean couldn't feel it. "I can try to help him find his way, I'll look up some rituals, call some people who might know more, but ultimately it's up to him. And…his mind might not be strong enough."

The slam of a door made them both twist in their chairs, even Sam looking in its direction. John had vanished from the doorway. The cough of his truck starting up sounded like a death-rattle.

* * *

John didn't return that night. His cell phone had been switched off and Dean had left eighteen increasingly strained voicemails to no avail. Finally he gave up, throwing his own cell onto the sofa where it was lost amongst the piles of cushions.

Dean found himself wandering around Missouri's neat house aimlessly, sleepless with worry for his fractured little family. He was ready to scratch his own skin off when the woman herself sat him down the next morning with a sharp word.

"Dean, honey, I know you're upset for your brother, and you have every right to be. I know it was a big shock." _That's putting it mildly_, Dean's mind whispered, bitterness tainting the thought. Missouri frowned. "But for god's sake, stop moping around and make yourself useful. Run to the store for me and pick up these things." She handed him a list.

Dean looked at it, scanning the exotic names written in ornate curling handwriting. "Will this stuff help Sam?"

Missouri rolled her eyes. "It's a list of groceries for dinner tonight. But if it'll motivate you to get out from under my feet, then yes, it'll help Sam. That boy can't sort his head out on an empty belly."

Dean blushed, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. Missouri caught it and her face softened a fraction. "Look Dean, I can understand your frustration. But this is something Sam has to work out by himself, in his own time. He's already made amazing progress."

"What?" Dean looked up. "What do you mean? He's been like this for days."

"He's pulled himself out of a comatose state, just three months after having everything upturned in his head." Missouri leaned forward and took one of Dean's hands in her own. "Honestly, I can't think of anyone, psychic or otherwise, who has the kind of willpower needed to do that in such a short space of time. Now, I can't say whether he'll get better. It may be that this is what he'll be like for the rest of his life. But you have to trust in your brother in this one."

Dean blinked, taken by surprise on feeling tears blurring his vision. He rubbed them away roughly with the sleeve of his shirt and stared at the cream rug between his feet. Missouri squeezed his hand once and let go.

* * *

Dean returned from the grocery shop with two plastic bags in each hand and a clearer head.

Sam would be okay, whether he got better or not. No matter what John Winchester said, Sam was his top priority and Dean wasn't going to let his baby brother down again. Sam didn't seem unhappy in his current state. Hell, Dean would even go so far as to say that his brother was happier now than he'd been before. He seemed content to be looked after and to do as he was told. And the death of his girlfriend, which Dean knew would kill the old Sam, didn't even seem to register with this version.

Secretly, he knew he was being just a tiny bit selfish. There was a part of him that loved this new Sam. An even larger part of him loved the physical turn of their relationship, the freedom to love his brother as he'd never permitted himself to act on before. Maybe if – _when_ – Sam came back to himself, his brother would be repulsed by what they'd done. Dean knew he had every right to be.

He'd wondered with a vague terror whether Missouri had been able to read his unbrotherly love in his thoughts. But if she knew, she wasn't saying anything and Dean decided to let sleeping dogs lie.

He stepped into the kitchen and placed the bags on the table. Sam was seated at one end, happily scribbling with his crayons like a little kid.

"Hey Sammy. Whatcha drawing there?" Dean glanced over at the paper. It depicted a stick figure holding an L-shaped black stick. Next to the person Sam was drawing in an indistinct grey blob. "Aw, that's real nice, Sammy. Good work." He could do this. He could live like this, maybe get a little apartment somewhere with Sam and spend his days taking care of him. The idea of domesticity didn't make him itch. Not if he had Sam with him.

"Dean? That you, boy?" Missouri called from somewhere in the house. The creak of the stairs announced her and she entered the kitchen a moment later. "Did you buy everything? Thank you, honey, now why don't you sit and I'll make you a cup of coffee."

"Have you heard from my dad at all?" Dean asked as he settled into the chair beside Sam.

"No, I'm sorry. I take it his cell phone's still off? Well, you know your daddy, he's probably off somewhere, venting some anger. He'll be back." A cup of coffee appeared on the table in front of him.

Dean nodded automatically, his eyes watching Sam as he drew. His brother was looking at the piece of paper in front of him like it was the only thing in existence. The hand holding the crayon scribbled sharply, back and forth. It was only after watching him for long moments that Dean realised the knuckles of his fingers were white, the crayon digging into the paper hard enough to flatten the pointed tip. Sam's jaw was tight, his entire body radiating tension like a trap about to spring.

"Sam?" Dean reached out a hand to still the violent colouring. Sam ignored it like it wasn't there. "Sammy, what's wrong?" He looked up at Missouri as she came to stand beside him, a frown on her face. "What's wrong with him?"

"I…I don't know." The words were almost a whisper. "His mind…the things he's seeing…"

"What things? What's he seeing?"

Missouri blinked, her face lined with anxiety. She reached a hand to Sam that hung in midair without ever making contact.

Sam looked up at her, the crayon dropping from his fingers. It fell with a clatter to the tabletop and rolled unnoticed onto the floor.

"He's seeing…" Missouri paused. Dean pulled out the chair beside him and she sank into it without breaking eye contact with Sam. "He's seeing…things that haven't happened yet."

"What, like the future?" Dean asked, a hysterical laugh in his voice that died as soon as he met Missouri's deadly serious eyes.

"How many of these drawings has he made?"

Dean thought of the pages upon pages stuffed into his backpack. His throat dried and he could barely croak out an answer. "Hundreds."

Missouri's lips drew tight together. She pulled the now-completed picture toward her. Sam seemed happy to let her do it, his attention now captured by the painted glass vase sitting beside him on the table. He reached a hand out to it, fingers stroking the smooth glass reverently.

"Are…are you saying that my brother is making psychic predictions…in crayon?" Dean asking incredulously. The finished picture in front of Missouri still showed a stick man holding a black line and a grey blob.

"I'm saying that your brother is drawing what he sees in his head."

"So what the hell does that mean?" Dean gestured to the picture on the table. "What, a man's gonna play fetch with a grey puddle? C'mon, this is…" His voice trailed off.

Missouri shook her head, picking the drawing up with both hands and holding in front of her like she could transform it to show Dean what Sam saw. "I saw what was in his head while he drew this. It was a spirit, an angry one. And," She looked him directly in the eye "it was going after your daddy."


	9. Chapter 8

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

New chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I'm glad you guys are enjoying it :) I'm hoping to get this finished in the next couple of chapters, which means the whole story will only be about 20k longer than I meant it to be… Anyway, hope you like the chapter!

Chapter 8

Dean drove as fast as he could, cutting corners and leaving angry horns blaring into the night behind him. The Impala responded to his urgency like a sentient being, as if it could sense his panic. The thrum of the powerful engine around him helped soothe some of his burnt nerves.

Sam had been drawing the _future_. People in trouble, people who needed their help. And Dean hadn't known. He was supposed to _know _Sam, to know what his little brother needed before Sam knew. That was his job, his life.

If his dad was hurt because of Dean's failure, he didn't know how he could forgive himself.

A sharp bend in the road, almost turning back on itself. Dean stamped on the clutch; threw the car into a lower gear and swung the wheel around hard. The engine groaned at the choppy handling but flew around the corner at his command like it was a part of him, like it could read his thoughts. At least he could still rely on his car to stay the same.

The interstate approached, lights from other vehicles flashing past in synchronised dance. Dean barely paused at the junction, slipping into the flow seamlessly.

Sam was safe at Missouri's, probably sitting down at that big kitchen table while the woman herself spooned out gumbo and prepared sugar cookies for his dinner. He hadn't wanted Dean to leave; had followed him around Missouri's house with big vacant eyes, pawing at his shirt, silently begging him. After what Missouri had told them, Dean was in no doubt that Sam could read his intentions clear as if he'd spoken them out loud. Shutting him inside like a pet when he tried to trail his big brother out the front door made him feel like the lowest scum, like he was sneaking off to drown kittens or something. But his dad had been right about one thing; with Sam in the state he was in, there was no way they could bring him on hunts. And there was no way Dean could _stop _hunting either. Not as long as Sam was drawing those creepily childish pictures. If his brother had to _see _all that in his head then the least Dean could do was make the world a little safer, take away a little of the pain for him.

He hoped he wasn't too late to stop this one.

John had _said_ that Sam couldn't have known about his previous hunt. Dean gritted his teeth. God, his dad had _said_, and he'd ignored it, denied it. And now they had no idea how these…_visions_ worked, no idea whether Sam saw them as they were happening. If he did, then no amount of speeding could save his dad.

The turn for Topeka came up on his left and Dean cut across a line of traffic without slowing. Missouri said his dad was in a wooded area somewhere, near water. The only place Dean could think of nearby that met both requirements was Lake Shawnee.

He followed the signs and prayed.

* * *

Half an hour later and Dean was cursing his dad loudly in his head. If only Sam were around to hear him now. The old Sam would probably have fallen on his ass in shock to hear Dean badmouth their father, his pissy little bitchface firmly in place, just to be contradictory. Dean missed his brother so much it hurt sometimes.

Rain had started pouring down as soon as he'd stepped out of the Impala. He left it in one of the parking lots for the private golf course, fervently hoping the shitty weather would keep the ticket inspectors away. The last thing he needed right now was to get clamped for being on members-only property. The place was deserted and he'd just tripped over what seemed like the millionth tree root, almost ending up on his ass in the wet mulch. His teeth chattered in the cold.

He tried calling John's cell phone again, going straight through to voicemail. _Goddamnit dad, turn on your frickin' phone for once. _His boots were sinking into the muddy grass as he tramped aimlessly around the park and the sodden cuffs of his jeans slapped and tangled around his legs, sticking to his clammy skin.

The rain blanketed most sounds, leaving him alone in a bubble. Dean strained to hear through it. Resisted the growing urge to call out. He hoped he could remember how to get back to the parking lot. God, he hated nature.

Then a boom of sharp sound tore through the rain, somewhere to his left and he ran toward it without thinking, his heart leaping into his throat. A second shotgun blast sounded and in his haste he stumbled on the uneven ground, falling to his knees and slipping. The churned mud beneath him sucked him into the ground, and he pulled a hand free with a pop, blindly clutching at air to try to find something to pull himself free.

The yelp came out before he could suppress it, jolted free by his fall. "Dad!"

John didn't reply and Dean forced himself forward, ignoring the low hanging branches that caught in his hair and slapped at his arms.

"Dad!" He yelled again, louder.

"Dean?" His dad finally answered. John's voice sounded dry and shattered, like he'd been screaming for hours.

"Dad, where are you?" Dean yelled into the wind.

Another shot and John finally, _finally_ came into view. He stood in the centre of a copse, black trees casting strange shapes behind him. A pale figure shone in the dim light, a woman with matted hair and a torn mouth. She flickered and Dean brought up his own shotgun.

John was in a fighter's stance, legs splayed wide and shotgun held in front of him like a holy talisman. A dark mound of earth was piled up beside him, an abandoned shovel lying on the ground in front of it. John met his eyes briefly. "Dean, keep it busy!" He commanded, scrabbling for the shovel as the woman spun back toward him.

Dean shot, watching the spirit disintegrate into slivers of silver and light. He took two steps toward his father and then it reformed in front of him, mouth an open bloody maw as it screamed. It looked like someone had hit her before she died, smashing her teeth and ripping lips. She might have been pretty at one point. Dean blasted again, digging in his pocket for spare rounds. Dirt flew from the hole John had been halfway through digging and Dean stepped forward to cover his dad.

The wind howled around them, whipping up falling rain and driving it into his face and eyes.

A wet crunch told him his dad had hit the body and he turned, picking up the gasoline waiting on a tarp beside the shallow grave.

"Dad, get out of there!" John scrambled out, slipping and sliding on earth turned to thick mud. Dean poured half of the lighter fluid on the rotting body, dropping the shotgun in favour of the salt canister. The spirit reappeared to his left, and he just had time to empty the salt over the corpse before it hit him, throwing him to the ground.

A sharp pain stung his left temple like teeth biting into the thin skin and bone. A flare of brilliant red and white told him John had managed to use the distraction to light the bones. Dean watched the spirit woman burn up like dry paper. Watched John sink to his knees, exhaustion carving lines through his dad's body. Mud and ice-cold rain soaked Dean's clothes, his skin, stuck his hair to his head. He closed his eyes and let consciousness fall away.

* * *

Dean came around to a ticklish sensation on his stomach. His head ached slightly, but not as badly as it could have, considering. He looked around, seeing the knick-knacks lining shelves in the bedroom, frills on the curtains._ Missouri's house_, he thought, relief a warm trickle in his belly. He was lying on the soft mattress in Missouri's guest bedroom, half-propped up by pillows behind his neck.

He looked down to see Sam lying beside him, his feet tucked under Dean's pillow and his head resting on Dean's hip. Someone had changed him, removing the wet clothes and dressing him in dry sweatpants. They felt warm and fleecy-soft against his skin.

The clean tee shirt he'd been dressed in was currently tangled about his chest to reveal his abs. Sam was deeply involved in drawing unseen patterns on the skin with his index finger, his face set in a slight frown as he traced lines only he could see. The finger trailed over the ridges and swells of muscles like it had a purpose, like what Sam was writing on Dean had a vitally important message. Maybe it did. Only his brother could know.

Dean watched him for a while, revelling in the simple comfort of the room and his brother. He studied Sam's expression with his head tilted to one side. He'd always known his brother to be focused, but the one-minded concentration that he possessed now seemed overwhelming, even for Sam. He wondered what Sam was seeing right now, what he was hearing in his head. Dean almost wished he had a magic fix for his brother, something to make him as he was before. He tried to remind himself that Sam was still Sam, nothing had been lost. He was just different now. But Dean had helped, just a little bit. Destroying that spirit had taken one bad thing out of Sam's reach.

He reached a hand out and buried fingers in Sam's hair, scratching at his head in silent apology for running off, for not figuring out what Sam was trying to tell him. For wishing Sam was someone he could no longer be.

"Hey Sammy." Sam didn't look up, didn't seem to hear his words. Dean scratched a little harder and was rewarded by the press of Sam's head into his hand, arching into the petting. Sam blinked slowly and turned his gaze on Dean's face. It was like a brilliant white light being shone in his eyes, and suddenly it made Dean want to smile, to be glad to have Sam's undivided attention.

He looked toward the closed door, wondering where his dad and Missouri were.

And then Sam rolled forward a fraction, bringing his lips to the patch of skin beneath Dean's belly button, his hand splaying on Dean's chest. He stuck out his pink tongue and licked the skin like a kitten, tongue disappearing again behind his lips. Dean couldn't help the tiny gasp that escaped him. His cock began to swell in his sweatpants and he felt vaguely disgusted with himself for responding so quickly, so obviously. Sam always did have a hold on him no one else could beat. The tongue darted out again, licking that same spot, slicking the trail of hair leading below his sweatpants until it was dark and wet. Sam's tongue flashed a third time and Dean bit down on a moan. They couldn't have John or Missouri coming up to check on them. Not now, not yet. His cock was suddenly full and begging for touch but Dean knew Sam wouldn't hear him no matter what he said. Another lick to that same patch of skin had his hips lurching upward involuntarily. Sam held him down, continuing his game. It would play out Sam's way, because Sam's way was the only way.

Dean was chewing his bottom lip ragged. His hand lay forgotten in Sam's hair and he twitched uncontrollably, unable to look away from his baby brother's face. It was the expression of a cat grooming itself, methodically devoted to that one task and almost dainty in his movements. Dean was panting, his dick a solid line in the crotch of his sweatpants. Sam ignored it, lavishing attention on Dean's belly until Dean's vision began to dance.

"Sammy…Sammy, oh." He gasped out, unable to hold the words in. His back arched, trying to press closer to Sam, but Sam rolled with his body, still absorbed in his licking. Dean felt himself climbing higher with each swipe of Sam's tongue, almost writhing in his desperate need. "Sammy…please." At his words Sam rubbed his cheek against Dean's belly, the rough rasp of stubble an overload on his senses, and Dean felt the world invert as pulse after pulse of delirious pleasure rippled through him, contracting every muscle. He heard his voice, wiped of all words except his brother's name, repeated over and over.

When he came back to himself, Sam had crawled right way up on the bed, one of his legs between both of Dean's. His hand was resting on Dean's belly and his nose and mouth were snuffling at Dean's temple, nuzzling against the hair. Dean turned his head, catching Sam's eyes. Sam blinked at him with no expression and Dean leaned in and pressed his lips to his brother's.

"Yeah, I missed you too, kiddo. I'm sorry."

* * *

"Hey. You're up." John looked up from the kitchen table at Dean's entrance, a sheepish look on his face. A red line that would soon darken to a bruise cut across his chin, but other than that his dad seemed unharmed. "Feelin' okay?"

Dean flashed a fake smile at his father, sliding into the chair beside him. "Never better, dad. I love a good fight in a dark rain-soaked park." His dad had the grace to blush, his eyes falling to the table in front of him.

Sam made a snuffling noise from behind Dean, drawing his attention for a second. His baby brother still seemed to think he might disappear again at any time and refused to let Dean out of his sight, following him around like a lost puppy.

"Oh, hush child. What's done is done, no point fighting over it now." Missouri said, looking up from her dinner preparations. "Your daddy knows he was wrong to take off like he did. No one got seriously hurt, so let's forget it and move on, shall we?" She eyed both John and Dean like she expected them to start arguing.

Dean glanced over at his dad before nodding brusquely. It wasn't over; that much was clear. Maybe his dad was sorry for running, for taking a hunt by himself and almost getting himself killed in the process. But the reason he ran was still valid. Still standing behind Dean and chewing on a hangnail, his green cat's eyes burning a hole in the back of Dean's head. John was watching Sam from the corner of his eye, as if he was too ashamed to look at him head on.

Missouri steered Sam into the chair opposite John before anyone could speak, perhaps reading Dean's worries and anger floating silent in the air. Dean flushed for a second thinking of what _else _she might have read. Whether or not she might have overheard the thoughts he was certain he must have been broadcasting earlier. Thoughts like _oh Sammy, oh Sammy, I love you_, or something just as sappy.

But if she heard she wasn't saying anything. Her expression broke into a soft smile as she settled Sam, fussing with the cuffs of his sleeves. Sam watched her hands working with detached fascination.

"So, uh. How long was I out?" Dean said, tearing his gaze away from Sam's big eyes.

"A few hours. It took a while to get you back here after you passed out. You hit your head on a rock as you fell." John said. A thought occurred to Dean and he opened his mouth only to be stopped by John's raised hand and amused smirk. "And before you ask, I drove the Impala back. I'll go and pick up my truck tomorrow."

An unwilling grin twitched Dean's lips. He really, really wanted to be mad at his dad for how he was treating Sam. But John had always been bad at dealing when the situation was a personal one. Especially when it came to his youngest son. Dean couldn't quite forgive him for it, but his dad was trying to help in his own way, and he was sure Sam knew it somewhere in that scrambled mind of his.

"Well, now that everyone's here and awake, we can eat." Missouri said, a smile playing on her lips. "And then maybe we can get started with your brother."

Dean's thoughts caught on food, his stomach reminding him he hadn't eaten anything for _way _too long. And then he replayed the rest of Missouri's words. "Wait, what?"

Missouri gave him a look that clearly said _you're really not that bright, are you_. Dean had seen the same look countless times before on Sam's face. "I've been looking up some rituals and spellwork. Something to…_weigh _your brother's soul in his body, if you like. I'm not certain it'll work, but it can't hurt to try."

"I thought you said we just have to wait for him to figure it out for himself?"

"I said ultimately it's up to him, but I didn't say we couldn't try encouraging him. I'm not letting you boys stay here and eat me out of house and home indefinitely, you know." She stood up, suddenly brisk and businesslike. "Now, Dean Winchester, you get your butt over here and start chopping some vegetables. John, you can lay the table."

Dean looked over at his dad, exchanging bemused looks. When they didn't move Missouri huffed, shooting a sharp look at the table.

"Well? You boys need an engraved invitation? Get to work! Dinner won't make itself, you know."

Dean was on his feet before he knew he was going to stand up, and a glance over to the other side of the table proved that his dad wasn't immune to Missouri's commands either. He didn't miss the tiny amused smile she turned toward Sam.

* * *

After dinner, Missouri instructed John and Dean in moving the furniture to clear space in the living room. Sam sat in the centre of the room, watching with mild interest as Dean strained with the heavy couch. He seemed to calm down during dinner, content to allow Dean to move around without tagging along after him as long as he stayed within some mysterious Sam-approved perimeter. Stepping outside this invisible boundary meant his little brother would suddenly appear from nowhere and attach himself to Dean's side, as Dean inadvertently discovered during a trip to the bathroom.

"Careful with that couch! Move it back slightly…no, not that way, the other way." Missouri stood beside Sam like an overseer. Dean half-expected her to start cracking a whip. He gritted his teeth against the instinctive retort, watching his dad do the same as he steered the other end of the couch. Missouri probably heard anyway, but she was kind enough not to call him on it.

"So why are we doing this again?" John asked after positioning the couch to Missouri's specifications. He cuffed sweat from his forehead and straightened, a hand going to his back.

"Because I need space to work."

She settled herself on the floor opposite Sam, her body somehow graceful despite her age.

Dean frowned. "What, that's it? You're not gonna light candles or something?"

Missouri sent a sharp look his way. "Boy, what do you think I am, some kind of cheap sidewalk palm reader?"

"No, I just…"

"I don't need to put on a show for you. This'll work just as well without a tacky display beforehand." The irritated expression dissolved into serenity as she turned back to Sam. "Now, are you boys gonna be quiet and let me work, or do I have to find some chores to keep you busy?"

John held up his hands in a placating gesture, pulling Dean down to sit quietly on the couch.

Missouri reached out, taking Sam's hands in her own. Dean watched curiously as Sam's eyes fluttered shut. The swell of hope rose in his gut, and it might have been his imagination, but he could swear the corners of Sam's mouth twitched in a smile.


	10. Chapter 9

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Okay guys, last chapter here :( I'll be writing an epilogue sometime in the next week, so it's not quite _finished _yet, but this is the last full chapter… I just want to say THANK YOU to everyone who has reviewed this story, I've really enjoyed reading all your comments :) I know I've been terrible at replying but I'll definitely answer every signed review for this chapter and the epilogue (which isn't a shameless bribe for reviews, honestly :) ) I have to say, I've really enjoyed writing this story, insane!Sammy's mind is the Most Fun Thing Ever, and I hope you all enjoyed reading :)

Chapter 9

Two hours into whatever ritual Missouri was trying, and Dean was bored. It was quite possibly the longest he'd ever sat in one place, not counting sleeping, or the few treasured times when flirty waitresses just _wouldn't stop _bringing him food.

It had started well, or so Dean thought. Not that he had the slightest idea what Missouri was actually attempting to do. But Sam had seemed focused, sitting opposite Missouri, his legs crossed Indian-style. He'd been staring evenly into her eyes as she stared into his and their breaths had been in synch and their backs straight, parallels of each other. But after half an hour Missouri started to sag, and half an hour after _that _Sam had discovered the innate beauty in the coffee stain hidden under the corner of the rug he was sitting on. And that, apparently, had been that. Missouri had actually slapped his brother's hands away with a _tsk_ing sound the fourth time his fingers had wandered to play in the carpet.

Finally she let out a heavy sigh.

"Well, we might as well get up and start washing those dinner dishes. Lord knows this floor isn't doing my back any good."

John stood to help her up. "It didn't work I take it?"

Missouri shook her head, an exasperated look on her face. Sam, now free to examine the carpet stains to his heart's content, decided that the floor wasn't that interesting anymore and turned his attention back to Missouri. His face was guileless and he cocked his head as if to say _was that_ it

"I'm not giving up that easily, boy." Missouri seemed to be speaking to Sam, her eyes narrowed like he'd deeply insulted her in some way.

"So what do we do now?" Dean asked, going to his brother's side.

Missouri looked at him, her face set and determined. "We try something else."

* * *

'Something else' turned out to be a thick white candle. Dean felt justified in the gleeful smirk that spread across his face at the sight of it, but Missouri's sharp look kept his mouth shut.

"It's a tool for meditation" was all she said on the subject as she put it down in the centre of the kitchen table.

Dean frowned. "Uh, Sam's supposed to meditate? No offence Missouri, but the kid can barely concentrate long enough to eat breakfast."

"That's the point." Missouri said, guiding Sam around by the arm until he was positioned on a chair by the side of the table. "It's supposed to give him something to concentrate on while I try and get inside his head, find out how everything is supposed to go back together."

When Sam was settled on one side of the table, Missouri sat down opposite him, lighting the candle in between them. Sam was instantly transfixed and Dean had a second of hope that this might actually work, until Sam's hand shot out to touch the flickering flame. Both Dean and John leapt forward, jarring the table and blowing the flame out. The candle rolled onto Missouri's lap, dripping hot wax onto the hem of her long patterned skirt. Sam blinked up at them with an empty look.

"Uh, maybe we should try something else?" John said carefully.

* * *

Dean stepped out into the cold night air, feeling the breeze brush his cheeks like a kiss. John stood a few feet away, surveying the dark shadows of Missouri's backyard. He glanced back as Dean moved to join him.

"They still busy in there?" John asked, his voice gruff.

"Yeah. Missouri's painting some kind of symbols on Sam's head, said it's supposed to open his mind or some shit. Taoism or Buddhism, something."

His dad let out a long sigh, his breath pluming grey in front of him. He didn't speak for a few minutes, and Dean wondered when everything had gotten so awkward between them. It never used to be like this, back when it was just the two of them on the road for days at a time. Easy silences that went on for hours, neither of them feeling like they had to share anything other than breaths. Now, Dean was itching for something to say. Some way to make it all better.

"I don't know that this is going to work, Dean." John said softly, his words chilling Dean more effectively than the night breeze ever could.

"What do you mean?" He asked carefully.

"I mean, Sam. And you. You know what we're up against, out there. Sam can't be dragged on hunts, left in motel rooms by himself. It's not practical, and it's not _fair_. I saw him today, when I carried you in. He wouldn't leave your side, Dean, not even to eat. Missouri said he was going crazy without you here, pacing like a wild animal."

"But…but Missouri's going to fix him. He's going to get better, dad. It's gonna be _fine_." Dean could hear the desperation in his own words, worn thin through endless repetition. His hands were clenching and unclenching uselessly by his sides.

John turned to look at him, and his eyes looked old and grey. "Son, Missouri's doing her best. And maybe we'll get lucky, but maybe we won't. Maybe this is it, how Sammy's gonna be from now on."

Dean shook his head violently, ignoring the tears that prickled his eyes. "He's gonna be okay."

"Dean."

"He _will _be!"

John held up his hands. "Dean, look…"

"No, dad! Don't you tell me he's not okay, even if he is like this forever! Don't you tell me we have to leave him behind again because I'm _not _leaving him!"

"Dean, that wasn't what I was gonna say." John took a long breath, his eyes falling to the floor like he was ashamed of something. One hand came up to scratch at the back of his neck. "I was gonna say that I think you should go to Pastor Jim's. The both of you. It's quiet there, out of the way. No one will come looking for you. You can keep me updated about the whole…vision, thing, and if I need help on a hunt I'll call you."

Dean blinked, his mouth opening on words that never formed.

"I know I've not been the best father to you boys. Not back then, and not now. But I always loved you, the _both _of you. I've tried to give you everything you need. And it's pretty obvious that what Sam needs right now is his brother."

John turned back to the dark garden, his eyes fixed on the treetops silhouetted against the inky sky. He exhaled shakily, like it had cost him something dear to say those things out loud. Maybe it had. The thought occurred to Dean as he watched the profile of his dad's face that maybe John _couldn't _do everything. For all that Dean looked up to his father, the residual hero-worship still slipping over from when he was much younger, he was still only a man, and a lonely one at that. He'd lost a wife, his youngest son had abandoned the cause for wild dreams of normal and future happiness, and now he had to let both his children go.

Dean looked at him for a long moment, his heart aching with something indefinable and bittersweet.

* * *

"That's it. I give up. I'm exhausted." Missouri said heavily, slumping into the big armchair in the living room.

"There's nothing else you can do?" Dean asked, trying to ignore the aching dip of his heart. "There has to be _something_. You can't just _quit_, you're supposed to be helping him!"

"Dean." His dad shot him a look.

"But…"

"Take Sam upstairs and put him to bed." Dean opened his mouth to protest, to beg, _anything _to get Missouri to try again. Before he could speak John nodded at him wearily. "That's an order, son."

Dean nodded, his head feeling ten times its normal weight. Sam stood without being told, waiting for him to leave the room first and trailing in his footsteps. It reminded him of when they were kids, of nameless motels and Sammy tagging along, telling Dean to _wait up, I can't run that fast! _At nine years old Dean thought he could take on the world and win, and Sam believed it too because nothing had happened yet to shatter those childish certainties. Big brother was the coolest, the best, the most incredible person in the world and Sam hadn't wanted to be left out of anything in case Dean did something amazing and he missed it. At the time it had pissed Dean off no end to be stuck with a little brother who dogged his every step and demanded to be included in everything he did. But now he wanted more than anything to hear that high pitched voice behind him.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a second. Sammy the child was gone, consigned to wistful memory. Instead, this broken almost-brother version of Sam followed him up the stairs, strange eyes never leaving him.

* * *

"I don't know what to tell you, John. I just…_couldn't_. It's like he's holding something back, something I couldn't see." Missouri looked up, her eyes red-rimmed as if she'd been rubbing them.

John let his weight drop heavily onto the sofa behind him, his head falling into his hands. "And there's nothing more you can do?"

"I'm afraid not. I'm so sorry, John. Sam had the ability to fix himself, but there's something else, something keeping him back." Missouri reached out a hand, clasping John's shoulder tightly. "I think what that boy needs more than anything is his family."

John looked over at her, a hand still screwed up in his hair. There was more grey colouring it every time he looked in the mirror. "I told Dean to take him to Jim Murphy's place for now. I can't ask him to leave his brother again, not when Sam needs him."

Missouri smiled softly. "Sam needs the both of you. Maybe he needs Dean in a different way, but you haven't lost your baby, John. He's still there, and he still loves you."

John looked at the carpet, the stain Sam had been playing with earlier still visible by the corner of the rug. He smiled wearily, nodding to himself. "I just…I've always tried to do right by them, like Mary would have wanted. Dean was easy. He wanted to hunt and he wanted his brother. I could do that for him. But Sam… After he turned fourteen, I just didn't know what to do with him anymore. Every time I tried talking to him, we ended up yelling at each other." He looked over at Missouri, guilt dark and heavy in his eyes. "Sometimes I thought it was for the best that he left. He was safe and happy, he finally had what he wanted. He didn't need me and my vengeance ruling his life."

Missouri clucked her tongue. "John Winchester, if you think for a second that that boy didn't love you, just because you had a few fights, then you're dumber than a plank of wood. Your trouble is, you can't stand it when someone else questions you. And Sam, he couldn't stand not having his questions answered. His leaving had nothin' to do with how he felt about his daddy and everything to do with how he felt about _himself_." She huffed, straightening her skirt primly. "Even an idiot could tell you that."

* * *

Dean spent half an hour in the shower, just standing under the scalding water and watching it run down the drain. He didn't realise just how much he'd been counting on Missouri's assistance until she said there was nothing she could do.

He shut off the water with a clenched fist. God, what was _wrong _with Sam? If Missouri was right and his…_condition _was self-inflicted in some way, why didn't he fix it himself? Roughly drying himself with a towel, he considered his dad's words earlier. He wouldn't have to leave Sam behind. But was he really doing any good in staying? What if his presence was stopping Sam from doing whatever it was he needed to in order to put himself back together again?

The mirror above the sink was fogged with steam and Dean smeared a hand across it. The picture it revealed made him start. His eyes were sunken and rimmed with blue-black circles. Cheekbones stood out prominently and his skin was sallow and pulled too tight. He looked like Sam had on that hospital bed, like he hadn't had a meal or a good night's sleep in weeks.

A scratching sound at the door drew his attention. Sam. Wanting his big brother. Dean closed his eyes and took a breath. On the one hand, Sam needing him like he needed Sam was the only thing Dean had ever wanted. But he hadn't wanted it like this. Like Sam couldn't even survive two minutes alone without him in sight. And no matter how he tried to avoid the subject, the sexual turn of their relationship had only ever been Dean's fantasy, never Sam's. He clenched his jaw tightly, holding in the whimper that wanted to escape. He'd been frantically pushing away the thoughts, the secret fears, but here alone in Missouri's bathroom they crept back to him, sinuously twisting themselves into the cracks of his mind. What if this was all his fault? He'd had _sex _with his _brother_, and Sam had never been in his right mind to give consent. What if the horror of knowing what Dean had done to him was keeping everything from falling back into place? Or making it even worse?

Scratching, more insistent at the door. Dean could imagine Sam on the other side, his hands splayed on the wood, pressing his body as close as possible in the half-thought out hope that he'd pass through the barrier somehow. Then he'd put his arms around Dean, rest his broken head on his big brother's shoulder in blind trust.

Dean opened the door, pushing past Sam without stopping and striding into the guest bedroom. The soft pink and beige of the room, the frills at the edges of the curtains, the pattern of flowers sewn onto the bedspread, it all reminded him distantly of his home, before the demon came and ruined it all.

Sam's hand fell on his arm. His fingers curled around the damp skin, clinging like Dean was a human security blanket. Dean shrugged off the touch, pulling out clothes from his duffle with more violence than was necessary.

Half of him was waiting for Sam to spin him around, kiss him, touch him like he wanted it. When he was fully dressed and still waiting, Dean turned to look at his brother. Sam was standing a few feet away, his face set in an almost-frown.

"What, Sam? What do you want? I can't give you anything!" Dean snapped out, his voice breaking. He spread his arms wide. "I can't help you!"

Sam took a big step forward, suddenly right up in Dean's space. Dean stumbled backward, his heart pounding. The backs of his legs hit the bed behind him and he fell, landing with a soft _whumpf _on the mattress. His body seemed to go limp at the contact, sliding to the floor beside the bed without his permission until he was a crumpled heap against the side of the bed. Sam stepped to his side in slow careful movements, like he was approaching a skittish cat. He sat on the floor with all the exquisite grace of a ballet dancer, keeping several inches of space between the two of them. Dean stared at him, waiting, watching for _something_. It never came, and all the fight went out of him like a puff of air.

Dean's head fell forward and he pulled his legs up to his chest, wrapping arms around them. His baby brother just stayed where he was, sitting perfectly still with an indecipherable look on his face. His fingers curled and uncurled repetitively in the thick carpet fibres at his knee, as if he was debating something in his head, the action a point of focus.

Dean almost expected it when Sam pushed himself forward and into a cross-legged position in front of him. He kept eye contact, watching Dean warily as he reached out a hand, slipping it behind Dean's neck and gently pulling him down like he wanted to kiss him.

He leaned forward, offering no resistance to Sam's hand on the back of his neck. Giving in to Sam had never been hard. Except something was different this time, and Dean couldn't quite figure it out. But this didn't seem like the prelude to another marathon sex session, or the start of one of Sam's manic drawing sprees.

Sam tugged gently until they were practically forehead to forehead, leaning together over their crossed legs. Dean stared hard, seeing the deep hazel of his brother's eyes, the catlike tilt to the corners.

And then, somehow, he was looking at _his own eyes_, wide and unblinking and inches away from him. His hand was raised, pressed to warm skin, except that was _Sam's _hand, surely? The touch buzzed, like all the energy their two bodies could create was drawn to that one point. A constant hum of soundless feeling all painted in the same shade of purple worry-love emanated from his body in front of him, so strong he could feel it pulsing through every inch of him.

_sammysammyprotectsammysamlovesammy_

A whisper of amusement that felt like melted caramel stroked at the back of his head and he tried to turn and see it, but there was no _back_, and he didn't seem to have a head. Before he could start panicking something pushed up beside him, something that felt warm and familiar and soothing.

_Sammy?_

The presence beside him rubbed softly against his own…whatever he was. It seemed to pull him forward, little petting tendrils of feeling telling him it was okay. And it was more Sammy than anything Dean had seen or felt since picking up the comatose body of his brother, since years ago when eighteen year old Sam had left with a dufflebag and no goodbye. It made him want to cry.

But there was no time, Sammything was dragging him now, away from their bodies and _up_. They seemed to hover weightless in nothing, until a barrage of colours and lights hit with a physical _crash_, suddenly choking Dean like it had all gotten caught in his throat.

Sam seemed to wrap himself around Dean then, and it got easier to breathe, to follow Sam's lead. Tiny snippets like movie scenes flashed by, too fast to comprehend. It was almost overwhelming in its intensity and Dean tried to close his eyes to the chaos before realising _hey, no eyes_. Sam didn't seem to be affected in the same way. His brother was calm here, letting the images wash over him like he was in the ocean, content to let the tides do with him as they would.

It made Dean's metaphorical heartbeat slow a little to feel his brother so unworried. Tucking himself closer to Sam, he let the moving pictures wrap themselves around the two of them, tangling for a second before moving on.

After god knew how long, Sam apparently decided it was time to leave. Dean couldn't agree more. How Sam could stand to be in that _place _without going completely insane…_oh_.

Before Dean could begin puzzling through his revelation, he was being pulled like a dog on a string back _down_. Sam seemed to have a destination in mind, and Dean let him lead.

And suddenly they were back at Missouri's house, and Dean could feel every breath, every pump of blood around his body. But Sam tugged him away from that and Dean followed, because it was Sam.

A whisper of colour. Dean was caught and transfixed, turning toward it like a fish to a lure. The neighbours were fighting over something, and brilliant red sparks flew in showerbursts. Through the bedroom wall, he could hear a little girl, sore and crying in a heap of dark blue, her thoughts screaming loud for everyone to hear - _ihatemymommywhydoigottagotoschoolihateitihateit _- Sam was a few steps behind, doing his best mental impression of irritated foot tapping. Dean reluctantly pulled back from the tiny sparks of people.

Sam led him down again, only this time it was more of a physical _down_. Dean concentrated hard, and briefly everything came into a dull sort of focus; Missouri's house in black and white, like the lines had been drawn into an etch-a-sketch. In the living room, a grey mist floated above one of the sofas. Dean moved closer, realising with a start that it was his dad. His journal lay on the table in front of him, projecting almost as much grey as John's body. As Dean watched, a sliver of rose slipped through the mist, accompanied by an impression of a laugh that felt like the Impala's engine warming up on a cold morning. He concentrated and caught a flash image of John's thought; a picture of himself at six, holding two year old Sammy awkwardly in his little boy arms in the backseat of the Impala. Sammy was giggling hysterically, and little Dean leaned down to blow another raspberry on Sammy's bare belly. It wasn't a memory Dean remembered, but it made him smile all the same. He would have stayed longer, watching forgotten moments from his childhood, but Sam was impatient and tugging at him.

In the kitchen, Missouri's presence was accompanied by a hum of song. She was lit up brighter than the other people Dean had seen, practically glowing in soft green. As he watched, Sam darted forward, poking her playfully. The song stopped abruptly and Dean saw pink-tinged flutters like butterfly wings float across her surface. _Sammy Winchester, you stop messin' around now and go practise puttin' yourself together again, or I swear there'll be no cookies for after dinner tomorrow night_. Dean would have jumped backward at the sharp and clear thoughts but Sam just seemed amused.

And then, intruding on the edges of his mind; a girl running down a dark hallway, her face streaked in tears and terror. _Something_ following, creeping on soft feet.

Sam pushed it away hard before Dean could get a good look.

With a heavy _thump_, he was back in his body. Sam's eyes blinked in front of his own and Dean was transfixed for a second by the startling _colour_. Sam leaned back, pulling his hand away from Dean's neck. The skin-on-skin contact felt like the softest silk, and Dean wanted to cry at how _good _that was.

He raised his head, his eyes catching on the floral bedspread. Each individual flower was sown in perfect symmetry, the light pinks and yellows of the petals so _impossible _in their muted colour. Dean wanted to touch, to feel how smooth the stitches would be on his fingertips. But then the pattern of the carpet distracted him, the stiff fibres scratchy and warm. He stroked his hand through it, marvelling at the way it moved and caught on his fingernails.

Everything in this room was _amazing_, and he never wanted to look at anything else again. Except maybe outside would have even _more _amazing things to look at and touch and smell and…

Sam reached out and stroked a gentle hand against his cheek, skin to skin. Dean jerked at the contact, his mind focusing instantly. Sam's touch realigned everything in his mind, pushing all the freefalling pieces into place. The incredulity of everything in the room faded away and he looked over at his brother, feeling embarrassed. Sam was watching him, the tiniest hint of a grin touching one corner of his mouth.

"Sammy?" His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't used it in months.

Sam opened his mouth, shut it, tried again. The words that finally came out were soft. "You saw. Did you get it?"

Dean blinked away sudden tears. "Yeah, Sammy. I got it."


	11. Epilogue

Disclaimer – Not my characters, I just use them improperly.

You like? You don't like? Review and tell me why! (Constructive criticism only please, if you don't like the subject, don't read the story.)

Okay, here is the final part to this story; it's only short I know, but it seemed like a good way to end it :) I know I said I'd post earlier but I've been having internet problems :( So I shall get right on answering everyone's lovely reviews, and I hope you all enjoy the epilogue! Let me know what you think!

Epilogue

Sam lay on the bed, his head pillowed on Dean's stomach. The soft cotton under his cheek was thin, the skin underneath warm and comforting with the steady rise-and-fall of each breath his brother took. He watched through half-slitted eyes, watched as everything in the room seemed to move up as Dean breathed out, down as he breathed in. It was fascinating, and he felt like he could spend hours just looking at the dresser with its display of bright yellow flowers and the interesting shadows it painted on the wall.

Dean's mind was still in sleep, no worries rattling around and turning everything dark and tense. Half-seen dreams fluttered above the bed in muted colours, tossed in the air by an unfelt breeze. Sam didn't delve too deeply into them, content to let them drift in time with Dean's breathing.

Dean's wet cheeks had been the thing that made it all real again. Dean had been sitting opposite Sam, tears running down his face and comprehension in his eyes, and Sam suddenly realised just what it was that he'd done.

He'd tried before, so many times, tried _so hard _to make everything work as it should. He'd pushed and pulled and hammered at parts of himself until he was screaming silently in his mind. All for Dean. Sometimes, when one of his more lucid moments had snuck up on him, Sam had wondered if it was all worth it. If maybe it wouldn't be better to just give up. But Dean was worn bloody beneath his skin, and Sam was his brother. Sam had to make it right because that's what brothers did.

So he tried harder, using Dean's pain and fear to guide him into what he should be. And finally, _finally_, he figured out how it all worked. And he showed it to Dean.

There should have been a flare of triumph, he thought. He should have felt ecstatic; he'd _done it_, he'd fixed himself. Give or take a few missing parts still drifting in his atmosphere like scattered debris. But seeing Dean's awed face, and seeing the tears that followed, all he could feel was a kind of hesitant gladness.

He wondered if that was _it_. If every crazy thing he'd seen in the ocean of bright colours was gone from him. He knew with innate certainty that he'd never be able to go back there again, and most of him was thankful. But the part of him that was just now creeping back, the part of him that had lost his girlfriend and his friends in a fire, lost any chance of going back to school and being a normal person, _that _part almost wished he could forget himself again. He'd liked the simplicity the colours had brought him.

But in a choice between his brother and madness he'd chosen his brother, and he couldn't bring himself to regret that.

A smile tugged at his lips, rough and strange on a face that was unused to the expression. Being human brought confusion, he remembered. Being human meant he had to make decisions, feel worry and uncertainty and fear. But it also meant he could lie here and feel his brother's skin beneath his fingertips. The choice was worth it.

Dean mumbled in his sleep, his hand curling in Sam's hair. The faint _scritch _of nails against his scalp brought the urge to push back into that petting hand. Dean sighed; pressed harder like he was trying to reassure himself Sam was still there. His dreams felt like moths stroking Sam's face.

Sam could read the thought from his brother's head, if he wanted. He chose not to.

* * *

John stopped outside Missouri's guest room, his hand halfway to the doorknob. His boys were in there and he couldn't quite bring himself to face them again. Missouri told him they loved him, told him _Sam _loved him, but still. He'd kept them apart when they should have been together, tried too many times to count to break that mysterious hold Sam seemed to have over Dean. But a part of him had always known they came as a package; SamandDean against the world. And maybe he shouldn't have fought so hard against it.

He opened the door a crack, sending a beam of light across the darkened room. It cast pale illumination onto the bed and John blinked, for a second not quite sure what he was seeing.

Dean was lying on his back on the bed. His were eyes closed, his face young and somehow _fresh_ in sleep. Sam was curled up beside him like a cat, his head on his brother's stomach. One hand was splayed across the bare skin where Dean's shirt had ridden up at his side. As John watched, Sam's eyes flickered open, meeting his own steadily for a long moment before drifting shut again.

John stepped back and closed the door quietly, feeling like he'd intruded on something private, a voyeur to something so intimate it couldn't be put into words. His heart was racing.

But that same intimacy that felt like a slap in the face was also, oddly, a reassurance. It felt _right _to see his sons together, peaceful at last. It felt like he could walk away now. Because if he'd done one perfect thing in his entire life, it was those boys. And if it meant going on alone he would, secure in the knowledge that in the world of SamandDean at least, everything would be okay.


End file.
